


Long Overdue

by StarsandJellyfish



Series: Psychic Sam [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Gen, Hell Trauma, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Psychic Sam Winchester, Season/Series 11, sam winchester is confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsandJellyfish/pseuds/StarsandJellyfish
Summary: After speaking to Sam about his powers returning, Castiel realises that he has something he needs to apologise to Sam for. Castiel then keeps finding things to apologise for. Sam accepts the whole thing in minor to major discomfort and confusion, wishing that Castiel would please just stop.Or, five times Castiel apologised to Sam and made Sam uncomfortable, and the one time Sam stopped Castiel from apologising to him before he could.(Can be read as stand alone, but it would probably make more sense if you read What You Choose to Do With It first)
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester
Series: Psychic Sam [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846264
Comments: 56
Kudos: 67





	1. No Excuse But One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this work is pretty overdue. I mentioned that I was working on something like this ages ago, but writers block hit me hard.   
>  Anyway, I have most of the chapters of this written, so updates should be pretty regular.   
>  This chapter takes place just after Senses Grow Sharper, chapter five of What You Choose to Do With It. If you haven't read that, it's after Castiel and Sam talked about Sam's re-emerging powers, and about how Sam was purified in the Trials, so he doesn't have demon blood in him anymore.   
>  I hope you enjoy this fic... :)

No Excuse But One

Unseasonably cold air hovered around Sam, dragging tickling tendrils up his skin. Goosebumps broke out over his arms, his hair prickling with it. Just barely, he held back a shiver. He wasn’t dressed for the weather, not having expected it. Disadvantages of having no windows: there was no way to tell from within the Bunker what the weather was like outside. Sighing, Sam simply pulled his flannel tighter around him. He wasn’t going back inside, not right now.

Notepad clutched in one hand, purple cover dampening slightly in the wetness of the air, Sam hurried up the hill. He needed space to think, somewhere where nobody would disturb him. There was a lot on his mind, what with him needing to tell Dean about his powers, about how they’d come back. Even though he didn’t want them back, he’d have to tell Dean, otherwise Dean might react badly when it became impossible to hide them.

Pen in his back pocket, poking him gently as he moved, Sam slipped and slid up the hill. The ground underfoot was sodden, clumps of mud tumbling down the hill whenever he raised his boot to take another step. The grass smelt wet, earthy, but it was a good smell. Soothing. The wet bark of the trees only added to it, made the whole place smell natural, ancient, set aside from the everyday life of the Bunker. There was something mystical about the woods around the Bunker, especially shrouded in fog like it was. Summer didn’t seem to have any hold over these trees, and Sam found that he liked that.

Dean was still inside the Bunker, still resting his leg. Castiel, who had showed up while Sam was in Lebanon getting help with his powers from a werewolf named Louis, was probably still in the Bunker. His mess of a car was still parked in the garage, though that didn’t indicate anything. If Sam had his way, he’d put the car in a scrap yard. Only Cas seemed to like it, Dean already having indicated his disgust with the junk pile to Sam.

While Sam had been able to find Cas’ car, he hadn’t been able to find the angel himself. He needed to speak to Cas, apologise for freaking out on him when he saw the angel’s true form. Castiel ought to know that it wasn’t Castiel _himself_ that he was freaking out at, but the reminder of the Cage. Although, maybe he shouldn’t tell Castiel that. The angel would only get disheartened by such a comment. Shaking his head, Sam let out another sigh and flipped open his notepad. He should be planning, not worrying about something he couldn’t change. Setting off further into the woods, he searched for somewhere to sit.

Finding a fallen log that wasn’t too damp or rotted was a little tricky, but eventually he managed it. Bugs were crawling about at one end, mushrooms growing at the other, but the middle was still solid and the trees surrounding it provided some shelter, enough for Sam to be reasonably certain the pages of his notepad wouldn’t be soaked through by the time he was done.

Hesitantly, Sam set his pen to paper, pressing gently at first and then harder. He wasn’t writing anything, wasn’t moving the pen at all. Closing his eyes and pulling the pen back, Sam rubbed his spare thumb over the page, smudging the single dot he’d drawn. It wasn’t a great start.

“How should I tell Dean?” Sam asked himself, staring up at the canopy of leaves. From where he sat, Sam could just make out the hunched form of a bedraggled bird in the branches, barely visible through the fog. “Maybe… pie?” He raised his voice a little, directing his query to the bird. “Maybe I could get him a pie? Soften him up.”

In response, the bird ruffled its feathers.

“You’re right,” Sam agreed, turning to look at the mulch on the floor instead. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous?”

Sam gasped, throwing himself from his log. At his feet, the notepad and pen fell to the mud, brown marks staining the purple. Sam was too busy turning his attention to whoever had spoken, hands raised into a defensive position, to notice. Distracted, Sam stepped on the notepad, squelching it further into the mud.

Wild-eyed, Sam panted, blinked. Slowly, he clamed down, relaxing out of his ready stance. It wasn’t an intruder, just a friend. Castiel.

“Cas!” Sam’s voice was still strangled. The angel remained where he was, staring at Sam with down-turned lips. “You startled me.”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel ignored Sam’s words entirely, instead moving around until he could pick up the notepad and pen. When he handed it back to Sam, a muddy footprint adorned the front cover. “I heard you talking to someone.” He looked around, blue eyes narrowed. When he turned back to Sam, his head was cocked to the side, curious. “There is nobody here.”

“Yeah, um,” Placing the notepad on the log and balancing the pen atop it, Sam waved Cas away. When he stood back up, he wiped his palms on his trousers, ignoring the stains left behind. He was flustered, as he often was around the angel. “Sorry. I was talking to the bird.”

He pointed upwards. Cas followed his gaze, then shared a knowing nod with Sam.

“It is uncomfortable, isn’t it?” he leaned closer to Sam, as if they were sharing a secret. “I was not aware that speaking to animals was one of your powers.”

“Um…” Sam said again, blinking at Castiel. The conversation was throwing him off, leaving him feeling he was on unstable ground. He wasn’t worried about it, just fairly certain that he wouldn’t be following the angel’s train of thought for very much longer. If he even was in that moment, that was. “It’s not. I don’t think. Um…” he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, twitchy. “Are you out here for a reason, Cas? It’s not that nice out.”

“I find it comforting to walk in nature. I am an angel, I do not get wet.”

Looking at Castiel properly, the hunter had to admit that Castiel was telling the truth. All of the angel’s clothes were still dry, though not pristine. The hem of his coat still hadn’t been redone, and now there were a few stains on it. Indigo ink – Castiel had developed a love for that colour – and brown-grey dust. He’d been in the library, probably while Sam and Dean had been sleeping. Sam had thought he’d seen some books out of place earlier, when he’d walked through.

Shaggy black hair was also dry, and not a single drop could be seen rolling down Castiel’s skin. Sam’s own hair was curling in the damp air, strands of it tickling his ears, his neck. There was even a strand tickling his cheek, making him flick his head. He found he had to run his hands through his hair, the silence making him antsy. The way Castiel stared at him, as if he were the most interesting thing on the planet, bothered him. Mostly because of the way Castiel stared. Yes, it was like he was interesting, but not in a good way. It was like he was a new discovery, something that both fascinated and repulsed Castiel.

Eventually, Sam had to break the silence. “I’m trying to work out how to tell Dean,” he admitted, moving his notepad so he could sit on the log again. “I don’t… Do you have any ideas?”

“You could get him a pie,” Castiel suggested, moving to sit on the floor. Sam made a noise to discourage him, but the angel only looked at him funny and sat. Squelching mud dragged him down a little, providing a comfortable, if dirty, seat. “Dean likes pies. It may make him more amenable to your reveal.”

“Um…” Sam said, then shook his head. “I don’t think that would work.”

“Yes,” nodding wisely, Castiel folded his fingers together in his lap. For all the world, he looked as if he were sitting on a chair in a board meeting, not sunk into clinging, stinking mud. “The bird says you reached that conclusion already.”

Unable to help himself, Sam threw a glance upwards. To his surprise, the bird was still there. Sometimes, he couldn’t tell if Castiel was joking when he admitted he could talk to animals, or if he really could. All he knew was that angel humour was funnier in Enochian, which Sam could understand, though when he was hearing it, he wasn’t really thinking about jokes. Too many bad connotations with the Cage. _Anyway_ , he thought, _maybe this is another of Cas’ jokes_.

“I do not believe it matters, anyway,” Castiel added, resettling himself. He drew one of his legs up from its splayed-out position, hooking his linked hands over his knee. With his head tilted up the way it was, he looked like a student clinging to his teacher’s every word. Internally, Sam repressed a snort. As if _he_ could ever teach Castiel anything, especially now Metatron had downloaded all human references into Castiel’s head. “I came over here to speak with you.”

“Okay…” Sam hedged, wondering what was so important that Castiel had taken time out of his walk to speak with Sam. “What’s up?”

“I have spoken with Dean—”

“You didn’t!” Sam gasped, horrified. The idea that Dean had told Cas about his powers was awful, outrageous. It was _his_ power to tell of, his _right_ to tell, not Cas’. “You _promised_ , Castiel!”

“I did not tell Dean of your powers, Sam,” Castiel assured. Immediately, Sam felt himself deflating. His shoulders slumped in relief and he hung his head, breathing out slowly to calm himself. With a muttered apology, he gestured to Castiel to continue speaking. Once Cas had accepted the apology with a gracious nod of the head, he continued. “We were speaking on another matter. How you view yourself.”

“How I—” Sam asked, confused. Finding himself tilting his head much like Cas did, Sam straightened up. He didn’t want to start gaining mannerisms from the angel. It would only make him more awkward than he already was. “What do you mean, how I view myself?”

“’The Boy with the Demon Blood’,” Castiel said, quoting Sam from a few days before, and himself from years ago. Sam couldn’t help it. He couldn’t repress his flinch. “’Abomination’. These are things you called yourself a few days ago.”

“And Dean heard this?” Sam asked, panicking. “He _knows_?”

“I spoke with Dean about these words of my own volition,” Castiel replied, easing Sam’s mind. Cas had brought it up with Dean, not the other way around. That was a relief, and a big one. “He agrees that they are not acceptable.”

Sam turned his eyes away, studying a tree instead. Gaze following the canyons and mountains of the rugged bark, he bit his lip. Wasn’t Dean the one who had told him he was a monster? Wasn’t Dean the one who said that, if he didn’t know Sam, he’d want to hunt him? Sam didn’t blame him for those words – of course he didn’t – but why was Dean worrying about how he viewed himself now? Unless Dean thought Sam would accept his destiny, accept all the things he was supposed to be, if he saw himself that way for long enough.

In reality, Sam just wanted to hide away, confine himself to the darkness and shadows and let himself be forgotten. That way, he wouldn’t hurt anybody ever again. Instead, he and Dean had to fight against evil in the world, but fading away and becoming just another nobody was a nice dream, one he might even get to achieve one day, if they lived that long.

“You should know,” Castiel broke Sam from his reverie, voice deep and reassuring. “You are neither of those things, Sam.”

“Cas,” warning edged into Sam’s voice. He didn’t like liars, and Castiel was the one who had told him those words, so long ago. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what Castiel thought of him, how Castiel viewed him. “Don’t.”

“I must, Sam,” Castiel protested, lips thinning. “Because you are neither of those things, Sam. Even if you were ‘the Boy with the Demon Blood’ before, you are not now. As I said, the Trials purified you, Sam.”

“But I _was_ ‘the Boy with the Demon Blood’,” Sam pointed out, though just like the first time Castiel had told him, the idea of no longer being tainted, blackened by the demon blood was a glorious one. It sent a thrill through him, though it wasn’t enough to cut away at the tension within him. Castiel’s insistence to talk about this, to try and improve Sam’s view of himself, was actually having the opposite effect, Sam was sure. Instead of feeling better about himself, Sam just wanted to run away.

“That was a term my siblings described you as,” Castiel admitted, bowing his head. Sam was left staring at his mussed black hair. “I should not have used it when meeting you. Even then, I could tell you were not what my siblings said you were, I just did not wish to believe it. You were far from an evil boy king.”

“But I was messed up,” Sam pointed out, still determined to argue Castiel’s words away. He didn’t know why he was doing it, but he suspected it was because he just _couldn’t_. Couldn’t let go, couldn’t change his world view, couldn’t forgive himself. There was a lot of things Sam couldn’t do. “Really, really messed up.”

“And a few years later, I opened Purgatory and let the Leviathans out,” Castiel pointed out, sitting statue-like. Not having blinked once, Castiel remained staring at Sam. It was starting to freak the hunter out, just a little. He knew Castiel was in a vessel, but still. Didn’t not blinking _hurt_? “You have forgiven me for that. Why would I not forgive you for your actions back then, especially as they were not all your fault.” Sam moved to say something, but Castiel spoke first. “Heaven and Hell both wanted the Apocalypse, Sam. You were manipulated into it, and still managed to circumvent it.”

Sending a brief wan smile Castiel’s way, Sam turned to look out into the forest. Very little moved, only patches of fog swirling through. A drip, drip, drip could be heard, moisture building up on leaves and falling down, sinking into the ground.

Closing his eyes, Sam tried to settle the knowledge that Castiel _forgave him_ into his bones, but it was difficult. Dean said he forgave Sam all the time, but he’d still bring up all Sam’s wrongs when they were fighting. It made it difficult to believe Dean, sometimes. Still, Castiel wasn’t like that, though sometimes he did put his foot in his mouth. Worry that Castiel would bring it up against him in the future still pawed at the edges of his mind, scratching to get in, but Sam wouldn’t let it. With great difficulty, he pulled walls up against it, ignoring the way it howled behind them as best he could.

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam’s voice was soft, tired. “That means a lot.”

“You have still not forgiven yourself,” Castiel determined, looking a little put out. Half-heartedly, Sam shrugged. Of _course_ he hadn’t. He probably never would. “But that is not what I came to speak with you about.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Sam focused his attention back on Castiel properly.

“Speaking with Dean, he made it abundantly clear that calling you an ‘abomination’ would have hurt your feelings,” Understatement, but still. The truth hurt. “I did not think of it that way, before.”

“It doesn’t matter, Cas,” Sam tried to brush it off, but Castiel was obviously having none of it. “It’s done. No going back.”

“I could go back,” Castiel pointed out, reminding Sam that he was, in fact, talking to an angel, and that said angel could, in fact, travel in time. “I would like to say that I was not trying to call you names, there. ‘Abomination’ was the technical term. All of Azazel’s children were abominations.”

_Ouch_. Sam thought. _Not really helping, Cas_.

Still, it was good to know that Cas hadn’t just meant Sam was an abomination. While he was one, it wasn’t personally directed at Sam. That was… That was actually amazing to know. Shifting on his log, Sam let his head fall backwards, facing upwards towards the canopy. The bird had finally gone – maybe recognising a private moment – and the leaves were blowing gently. The hushed rustle they made was soothing, calming Sam’s turbulent emotions. Taking a deep enough breath to fill his lungs, Sam let himself relax. Finally, they were done talking.

“You are no longer an ‘abomination’,” Or not. Castiel apparently hadn’t got the memo that their conversation was over. “But even when you were,” he continued, unlocking his fingers at last to reach out, place a soft hand over Sam’s knee. “I should not have called you that. My only excuse is that I was drunk.”

“It doesn’t matter, Cas,” Sam told him, giving him a sad smile. “Like I said, it’s done now.”

“The life of that tree you are sitting on is done, now,” Castiel’s hand was still on Sam’s knee, making him uncomfortable. Heat began to spread, high on Sam’s cheekbones. Carefully, he shifted away, disguising the movement as him resettling on the log. “That does not mean it was not important.”

“Well,” Looking away, Sam tried to work out how far he could see through the fog. Anything to keep his mind from dwelling on what Castiel was saying. “Like you said, you were drunk.” Throwing his mind back to that day, he felt he had to add, with a small amused snort, “Very.”

“Yes, I was,” A faint smile curled the corners of Castiel’s lips. He might as well have been full-on grinning. Sam rarely saw such displays of emotion on that face. “But that is no excuse. I am sorry, Samuel Winchester.”

“Forgiven,” Sam said it immediately, without even having to think about it. Castiel was his friend, and he had forgiven him for that years ago. Hell, he’d forgiven Castiel for that before he’d thrown himself into the Pit. “Next time, don’t let Dean bully you into making apologies, Cas. You don’t need to.”

“There are many things I ought to apologise for,” Castiel said gravely. He cocked his head to the side, a curious dog looking at a new and bewildering thing. “And I did not let Dean bully me. I felt I ought to apologise myself.”

“Well, still forgiven,” Sam promised, sending a crooked smile Castiel’s way. He knew he still looked worried, eyebrows furrowed just slightly. At the same time, he was feeling better, lighter. It felt good to know that Castiel forgave him for the Apocalypse, good to know he was no longer an abomination, no longer the boy with the demon blood, good to know Castiel knew he was forgiven any transgression. Castiel was his friend, and that’s what you did for friends. If they were sorry, if they stuck by you, if they were good people who made mistakes sometimes, as everyone did, you forgave them. “I forgave you a long time ago, Cas.”

Blue eyes widened a little at that, the cocked head tilting just a little further to the side. Sam was being studied again, though this time there seemed to be something less like disgust and more like… Well, Sam didn’t want to call it wonder, but the almost-awe on Castiel’s face was making it difficult to label it as anything else.

Not knowing what he had done to deserve such a look, Sam stood up and brushed himself off. Mud from his pants smeared over his hands, leaving them gritty and gross. If Dean had been there, he knew his brother would have been complaining like crazy, uncomfortable with dirt. For a hunter, his brother was a wuss when it came to muck and germs. And insects, for that matter. Briefly, Sam contemplated putting a spider in Dean’s bed as a prank, but decided against it. At the moment, what he needed to do was butter Dean up, not get him wound up.

Pressing his fingers into his eyes and shaking his head, Sam let out a groan. Stretching out, having sat in the chilly fog for too long, Sam listened to the rustle of Castiel’s coat as the angel rose to his feet behind him. Turning, Sam was met with pale hands holding out his favourite purple notepad, now ruined. With a sigh, Sam tucked it under one arm and started heading back towards the Bunker, ready to get warm. A cup of tea was in order, even if Dean would turn his nose up at it.

“You are cold,” Castiel said, walking on silent feet next to him. Sometimes, Sam was jealous of Castiel’s complete silence when it came to walking. He himself was good, but Castiel’s ability would come in handy on so many hunts. Shivering, Sam stumbled on, shaking his head when his own foot landed on a stick and snapped it, creating a loud crack. “Take my coat.”

“Cas,” Sam held a hand up, stopping the angel from struggling out of the garment. “Your coat won’t fit me.” Castiel looked disappointed, like he’d somehow failed in his task. “Also, it’s really dirty. We’ll have to clean that, before Dean sees it.”

“You’ll help me?” Castiel turned worried eyes Sam’s way, brows lifted imploringly. The fact that Castiel didn’t balk at apologising to Sam when the whim struck him, but did at the idea of cleaning up a coat almost made Sam laugh.

“Of course,” Sam promised, feeling the corners of his lips pull upwards into a smile.

It surprised him, somewhat, as his emotions were still turbulent, swirling and wild and whirlpooling underneath the layer of amusement he felt. Still, he could already tell that there weren’t just bad emotions in that lot he couldn’t focus on, not yet.

While there was still some self-loathing in there, while there was still regret and guilt and shame, there was also the relief that he was no longer a monster, the lightness that his destiny was no longer what it once was, the satisfaction that came with an apology, no matter that the apologiser had already been forgiven. Sam didn’t feel perfect, probably never would feel perfect. He would probably always struggle to accept himself fully, always struggle to drag himself away from his worse thoughts about himself, but what Castiel had said to him today, it helped.

Knowing that a dear friend of his, the person closest to him other than Dean, didn’t think he was a monster was amazing. It would help him accept himself in the future, and that could only be a good thing, Sam decided. Acceptance wouldn’t be easy, but it was something Sam could work on, and there, that day, Castiel had helped Sam onto that path. It was freeing.


	2. Fault Admitted Freely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is hiding deep in the Bunker when Castiel comes to apologise for something long since past. He's looking for forgiveness, but his apology might upset Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. I have all but the last two chapters written now, though I'm planning on writing the fifth chapter later today. I'm holding off on the sixth chapter, simply because I can't decide if I'm going to go down a Sastiel route, or keep this gen. If you have any strong opinions about that, feel free to let me know. I have both versions of the last chapter plotted out, and it will only take a little tweaking of the fifth chapter. 
> 
> As for this chapter, it is also set before Dean finds out about Sam's powers, about a week after the previous chapter of this story. Like I said earlier, I hope you enjoy... :)

Sam let the music curl around him, lifting him up in it’s tender grip. Swirling around him, produced by his own hands, it buoyed him and settled him, allowed him to release all the emotions he swallowed down inside himself, all the emotions that he couldn’t let escape. This, now, was the only release he had.

Certainly, if he wanted to, he could let his powers explode out of him, let his turmoil, his rage, loose. But if he did that, Dean would _know_. Worse, with no grip on his powers, he didn’t know what he would do. Instead, he let his hands fly over the ivory and ebony of the keys, let the music take him away, let his emotions escape into the air the only way they could.

Tucked away deep into the Bunker, so deep that even Dean didn’t know about this room – at least, Sam didn’t think he did as he himself had only found it after taking a wrong turn on a particularly long jog while it was raining outside – Sam had found a piano. It was dusty, untuned from decades without use, but still it was useable. In his spare time, time in which Dean thought he’d gone away to read or research in private, Sam had snuck down here and brought the piano back to working condition. Then, for the first time in a long time, Sam had sat down in front of it.

Over his childhood, Sam had engaged in piano lessons here and there, keeping it quiet from John and Dean. Teachers had seen his potential and taught him a few times, just enough to get him interested in lessons. They had thought he would pay for private lessons then, but by that time it was time for his family to move on. Every town they visited, or at least every few, someone would take the chance to teach him. Until he went to Stanford, where Jess had encouraged him to get proper lessons. It had been difficult funding them, but he’d managed it.

After that, he had been a natural. The music had always soothed him, let him express all that he kept inside without him having to say a single thing. Instead of pouring his hurt out to someone, he could create something beautiful, something that they could appreciate too, if ever they heard it. Nobody had heard him in a _long_ while.

When he had first sat down at the carefully restored piano, he had spent some time running reverent fingers over it, hesitant to take that final step, scared to even try. The Cage had broken so many parts of him; what if it had taken away his ability to play?

Eventually he had steeled himself, plucked up the courage to play one solitary note, letting it ring out in the air. That had been enough for that day, so much so that Sam had fled the room. It had taken him days to go back, but when he had, he had determination written into every line of his body, the set of his shoulders, the expression on his face. He had stormed past Castiel, not even stopping to mutter an apology to the angel as he had went, and he had sat down at that piano bench and he had practised until his hands ached, all the way up to his wrists.

At first, the notes had been rusty, confused, barely even music. Over time, weeks and weeks of work, Sam had got his piano playing back up to his previous standards. Then, with very little to do when he wasn’t researching or hunting, Sam had improved his playing, letting the music arch and soar and consume around him. It took on a life of its own, something that Sam now suspected had more to do with his powers than anything, but it was something that was _his_ , a creation of his very own, and something he was _good_ at, good at in a way that didn’t leave him a screw up, like his powers did.

It was that music that surrounded him then, the last tragic notes of it reverberating in the air as he took a deep breath. Sam had played his fear for Dean finding out into the keys, had written his disappointment in himself into the chords, had cried his worry into the crescendo and his hopelessness into the last few trembling notes.

Breathing heavily, head bowed over the keys, Sam let the silence wash over him.

“I didn’t know you played,” a voice startled him, causing him to shoot up with wide, panicked eyes. It was only Castiel. That was okay; Dean didn’t need to hear the pain and turmoil of Sam’s feelings, especially when it seemed Dean’s ultimate goal while trapped, injured in the Bunker, was to make Sam happy. “Hello, Sam.”

“Castiel,” Sam greeted on a slow exhale, removing his fingers from the keys and spreading them over his lap instead. “Yes, you did.”

He wasn’t lying, either. Sam knew that Castiel listened to him play. He had wanted to tell Castiel not to do it again, the first time he’d realised the angel was listening, but he’d seen something deep in the depths of Castiel’s eyes, something that spoke of desperate recognition, and Sam had found he hadn’t had the heart to do it, to crush Castiel in that way. Instead, he’d endured Castiel’s listening with silent grace, knowing the angel got a great deal of reassurance from the music Sam produced.

“I did,” Castiel acknowledged with a slow bow of his head, taking a few steps further into the music room. His nose twitched, just slightly, and Sam couldn’t blame him. Other than on the piano, Sam had let the dust rest. The musty smell of the air had spoken to him, almost like an old friend welcoming him home. He was so old now, if you counted Hell time, it only felt fitting. Of course, the angel had a far more sensitive nose than him. The dust probably irritated him. “I was looking for you.”

“You found me,” Sam murmured, voice still quiet in the room. This room was almost like a church to him; speaking loudly didn’t feel right. “What do you need?”

“Nothing,” Castiel’s obviously didn’t have the same reverence that Sam did, though, Sam supposed, why should he? He was created by God. The holiest places for Castiel were probably, actually, holy places. “I did wish to speak with you, though.”

“Well, you found me,” Sam spread his hands wide, turning on the bench to face Castiel. His jeans slipped over the leather of the bench, a faint hushing sound shifting through the air. “What’s up?”

“I owe you an apology,” Castiel explained, voice finally dropping lower, almost in shame. Sam felt his eyebrows raising, his mind trying to catch up with what he had heard. “I have wronged you.”

“Castiel…” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes at the angel. “You apologised to me last week, remember?” Castiel shook his head, leaving Sam to nod at him, drawn out. His hair slipped forward from where it had been tucked behind his ear, tickling his cheek. “You did, Cas. In the forest. It was misty. Remember?”

“I remember,” Castiel confirmed, voice solemn. Well, more solemn than usual. It was always _fairly_ solemn, Sam allowed. “But that is not what I was talking of in this instance.”

“Right,” agreed Sam, as if he knew what Castiel was talking about. He didn’t. Sliding to the side slowly, Sam patted the seat next to him, ignoring the catch of the peeling leather on his fingers. “So… why do you need to apologise?”

“I have wronged you,” Castiel said again, as if that explained anything. It didn’t. More insistently, Sam patted the bench again. Taking the hint, Castiel took a few more steps into the room, crossing it slowly. Sam waited with bated breath, releasing it in increments when the angel finally took a seat next to him. He raised his hand, stroking his fingers over the keys but not pressing down. Instead, he opened his mouth, paused, finally said, “Years ago, now.”

Furrowing his brow, Sam had to ask, “If it was years ago, why do you have to apologise?”

Castiel turned to look at him, the pallor of his face bright in the darkness, catching the faint light from the hallway outside. Sam played the piano mostly by muscle memory, keeping the room largely in shadow. It fit his mood the most, he thought. Now, it was just frustrating. With no light to illuminate, there was little he could actually see of Castiel’s face, so there was very little he could read from the expression spread there for him, open and trusting.

“Because I wronged you,” Castiel explained, voice holding that faint edge that spoke of surprise. It was rare for Sam to hear, but appreciated all the same. Sam liked surprising the angel somewhat, liked the fact that he could still do it, even now. “And I never apologised.”

Clearing his throat, Sam promised, “I don’t know what it is you want to say sorry for, but I do know this. I forgave you. I do forgive you.”

“Sam,” Castiel’s voice sounded as welled-up as Sam had ever heard it, though really it was just a watery tang under the gravel of it that told Sam that. “I still have to say it,” he took a deep breath, let it out slowly. A human expression if ever Sam had seen one. Castiel was learning. “I am sorry for locking you in the panic room when you had to detox. You did not die, but you could have done. It was wrong.”

A jolt speared through Sam, panic welling up in his chest at just the thought. On his lap, he let his fingers clench into fists. Shoving the panic down, Sam took a few deep and steadying breaths, the smell of ozone and lightning overtaking that of the must in the room. Closing his eyes, Sam clamped down on his fears, clamped down on the bitter memories begging to escape the tight hold he usually kept on them.

Cold, with cheeks he knew would be pale, Sam turned to Castiel and said, “It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have drank…” he trailed off, unable to continue.

“You should not,” Castiel agreed, though there was no anger in his voice. “Yet what else were you going to do? You were manipulated into it, Sam. We – Dean and I – we should not have punished you for that.”

“Yes, you should,” Sam argued, a rough edge entering his voice, heavy as stone. “I was _wrong_.”

“But you were trying to do what was right,” the angel pointed out, blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sam. He shifted, trying to throw off the weight of Castiel’s gaze, but he could not. It was pinned to him, held fast. “We should have found a better way. Even your brother admits that, I don’t see why you—”

“If Dean admits it,” Sam interrupted, bitter taste coating his tongue, “Then maybe Dean should tell me himself, not get you to do it for him.”

Perhaps that was unfair, but Castiel was making him uncomfortable. What’s more, to come down here and apologise to Sam on behalf of Dean? Or even just because of Dean, because he’d found out that Dean now thought of his own actions as wrong… Did Castiel not think for himself?

Shoving down his ungrateful thoughts, knowing he should take the apology as it came, Sam turned his face away. Peering into the darkness, he let his thoughts swirl, coil, twine. Eventually, he released a shallow breath, allowed himself to acknowledge the fact that, just because he was forgiving didn’t mean he had to forget, per se. Detoxing had been one of the worst experiences of his life, outside of the Cage. The only experiences he would rank higher would be Dean’s deaths, all of them, even if some of them had been only an illusion created by a desperate archangel. Even so, they had been traumatising beyond reason. Detoxing certainly ranked a close second to all those moments Dean had died, he had to admit.

Cautiously, as Sam was taking yet another steadying breath, Castiel spoke up.

“Dean did not get me to apologise to you,” Castiel informed him, his voice sounding both wounded and firm. Sam hadn’t meant to hurt him in his accusations. “I did not understand, back then, what damage detoxing can do to the human body. You are human Sam, even if you have extra abilities. I did not take that into consideration then.”

“Well,” Sam finally managed to get out, voice sounding croaky and tight. “Apology accepted then.” He paused, swallowed, met Castiel’s eyes. “But like I said, I forgave you, Cas. Ages ago. When I shut myself into the panic room that second time, maybe before.”

“We should not have let you shut yourself in that second time, either,” Castiel argued, leaning ever so slightly closer to Sam. He was so close that Sam could see individual eyelashes, fanning out around his open-wide eyes, imploring expression forcing them big. “You must understand that, Samuel.”

“It’s Sam,” Sam couldn’t resist his usual rebuff, but then he paused, threw his mind back to that time, after Famine had got the best of him, admitted, “I don’t think there’s much you could have done to stop me from locking myself in that second time.”

“I am an angel,” Castiel said flatly, as if Sam could have forgotten that fact. He followed Sam forward as Sam leaned backwards slightly. An amused huff escaped Sam, though he managed to pass it off as a sigh.

“Even so,” Sam murmured, reaching up to pat Castiel’s shoulder awkwardly. The angel was so close that it required some careful manoeuvring of his arm, in such a way that it made his own shoulder pull uncomfortably. It did have the added benefit of getting Castiel to lean backwards a little, meaning Sam could sit upright again.

They sat in silence, Sam facing forward on the bench, Castiel with his body turned to stare at Sam. His eyes burned the side of Sam’s face, but Sam found he wasn’t going to shift enough to look at the angel. The closeness Castiel was insisting upon was difficult enough, especially with the way his mind was swirling, a tornado of moments from the panic room hurling themselves into his consciousness. If he met the angel’s eyes, he’d probably cause something drastic to happen, something like exploding the untouched instruments, or worse, exploding the piano they were sitting at.

Hesitantly, Castiel cleared his voice, drawing Sam’s attention back to him. The way Castiel had his eyes turned down, sheepishly examining the piano before them, told Sam all he needed to know. The angel thought he had messed up somehow. In some ways, he had. Sam didn’t like talking about the panic room, and there were reasons for that. Still, it was undeniably nice that Castiel had taken the time to think of Sam, to find him, apologise for crimes only partially committed and long forgiven.

“Maybe you could play your feelings?” Castiel suggested, showing a remarkable sense of understanding. He recognised the turmoil within Sam, knew that Sam liked to tell his story through music. What he didn’t know was that Sam _couldn’t_ play about those times, not yet. Maybe not ever. Not without breaking down, at any rate. It was private, something only for him.

“No, Cas,” he sighed, voice weary. “I couldn’t. It’s too much. There would be… There would be too much.”

That was all he could say. How could he ever explain the way he had seen things while detoxing? How could he tell Castiel about the way his _own mother_ encouraged him to be awful, his past self put him down for his actions, berated him for his choices? How could he tell Castiel that he’d heard Dean telling him the unadulterated truth for once in his life, even if it wasn’t the real Dean? And how could he tell Castiel that he couldn’t _play_ that truth? He didn’t _want_ that truth. He was a monster, of course he was a monster, but how would he express that in music without tearing himself apart, without ripping his own battered heart from his chest and grinding it into the dusty floor beneath the piano. No, it was better if music like that never saw the light of day, never travelled its way from his heart and out of his fingers, never escaped into the air to tell that story. 

Instead, he reached forward, gripped the lid to the keys in trembling fingers.

Another hand reached out, holding the lid in a firm grip. Confused, Sam turned his head to the side, studied Castiel with one brow raised.

“Don’t close the lid,” Castiel told him, command in that tone. Briefly, Sam wondered if it was symbolic for Castiel, if the angel thought that he might never come back to the piano if he closed the lid, walked away now. “Leave it open.”

“It will catch dust that way, Cas,” Sam told him, voice quiet in the room. The angel didn’t let go, wouldn’t release his grip on the polished wood. “I have to close it.”

“You can clean it,” Castiel pointed out, the tiniest of pouts making its way onto his face. Sam shook his head, closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Not well enough,” he informed the angel, though he removed his hands from the lid. When his fingers were back in his lap, picking at the material of his jeans, that was when Castiel finally let go.

They sat in silence, flannel-clad shoulder pressed up against thinning and frayed beige, a small point of warmth pressing against Sam’s cold muscles. The hems of Castiel’s coat was dragging on the floor, Sam noticed. Dean wouldn’t be pleased. He’d taken one look at Castiel’s mucky coat the other day and practically thrown a fit. The freshly cleaned material was now staining terribly, cutting swathes through the dust on the floor, joining footprint with footprint in the grey.

Abruptly, Sam stood up. In that movement, he tried to shut the lid. Castiel’s hands shot out again, preventing the movement once more. Sam let out a heavy sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Teach me to play,” Castiel demanded. He paused, considering. Finally, he added a, “Please.”

“Not today, Cas,” Sam told him. He was exhausted, his voice strained. Tiredness washed over him, leaving him wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep. That, or lose himself in research. Whatever he was doing, he didn’t want to have to think. Castiel’s apology had brought up memories, and while the apology itself was appreciated, if unnecessary, the memories were not. Sam needed time to resettle, to tuck everything that had come screaming out of the locked door in his head back into their cell. Then, he needed to padlock the door three or four times, just to make sure.

“Sam,” Castiel called to Sam’s retreating back. There was a slight bubbling in his voice, the beginnings of the faint panic he sometimes displayed, in the most dire of situations. “Please.”

“That’s not a never, Cas,” Sam promised, glancing back over his shoulder. Castiel looked so lost, sitting alone at the piano bench. He couldn’t help the way his heart clenched for the angel. “I’ll teach you. I will.”

“Just not today.”

“Just not today,” Sam confirmed, sending a soft smile Castiel’s way. Taking pity on the angel, he added, “I do forgive you, Cas. I did a long time ago. I just… Need to not think, right now.”

“Alright,” Castiel agreed, nodding his head. Something about the way he resettled on the bench, the way he reached up and stroked the lid of the piano, before sliding it closed, made something in Sam unclench. The angel no longer looked so helpless, so lost. Instead, he just looked tired himself, guilt warping his expression, but something that looked just a little like wonder flickering behind his eyes. Sam couldn’t look at his expression too long, shadowed as it was in the darkened room, so he dropped his eyes, faced forward once more. “I will see you in a few days for lessons, then, Sam.”

“A few days,” Sam repeated with a firm nod, then began out the door. “I’ll see you in a bit, Cas.”

“Indeed,” Castiel hummed, and his voice was warm.

Relief filled Sam, allowed him to make it all the way up to the more inhabited parts of the Bunker and into his customary spot in the library before the thoughts took over. Pushing them back roughly, a man beating back brambles with a stick in the forest, Sam bent his head over a book and began to read.

Research would welcome him like an old friend, would not try to apologise or make things right for slights long since forgiven. The status quo could be upheld with books, and nothing here would throw him for a loop. Books would only bring up old memories if he let them, would never admit to doing wrong by him, especially when he wasn’t so certain anything wrong really _had_ been done. No, while the apology was nice, it was off-putting, and now he needed to settle. Maybe he’d have to avoid Castiel for a few days, just to make sure he didn’t get surprised with any more unsolicited apologies.

Steeling himself, Sam refocused on the book, admitting to himself that he _would_ avoid Castiel, and began a task he was much more comfortable with, much more understanding of. Here, everything was alright. Here, his world view wasn’t altered drastically. Here, nothing could apologise. And that, Sam thought with determination, was _good_. 


	3. Someone He Trusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean are on their way back from a hunt, a little banged around. Castiel comes to heal them, and somehow believes he's lost Sam's trust. He thinks it's due to an incident from his and Sam's past. Is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I have all but the very last chapter written now. (I was going to write it earlier, but I was ill these last few days). Luckily, it's all planned out, so I'll write it on my day off. Not long to go now! :) 
> 
> This chapter is the first one set after the end of What You Choose to Do With It. It's set about a week after the last chapter, so Dean knows about Sam's powers now. Other than that, no additional information is necessary to know, so I hope you enjoy this chapter... :) Thanks for reading!

Someone He  Trusted

Sam staggered down the steps after Dean, every little cut and nick making themselves known to him as he moved. Worse, his chest practically burnt, stitched up by Dean the previous morning, but still incredibly painful to the touch. It stretched as he moved, pulling insistently at his skin, his muscles, making sure he didn’t forget about it. He’d pulled a loose t-shirt over the top of the wound, forgoing his usual flannel shirt over that.

Feeling practically naked as he stumbled down the steps, hands clenching the bannister tightly in an effort to keep his pained cries in, Sam let out a sigh of relief when he spotted Castiel.

The angel had stayed behind when he and Dean had gone on a hunt, Dean claiming that he wanted to spend time with Sam to the angel. Castiel had looked vaguely disappointed, but beyond that had made no protest. As they had first set out, Sam had felt guilt eating at him, but as he and Dean spent time together, laughing their way towards the hunt, teasing their way through it and complaining their way back from it, that guilt had lessened. Coming back, seeing Castiel’s relieved expression, Sam felt that guilt poke at him again. He shoved it down.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean waved a lazy hand, exhaustion clear to Sam from the line of his shoulders. He could only imagine the bags under Dean’s eyes, Dean having worn shades the whole way home. They’d only been removed once they’d stepped into the Bunker. What Sam _could_ say from his position behind his brother, was that Dean sounded in good spirits, tired but pleased.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel intoned, eyes flicking between both Dean and Sam. Eventually, they fixed on Sam, a worried crease carving itself into the angel’s brow. Sam knew why; he was hurt far worse than Dean had been, and obviously, too. A small red bloom was unfurling across his chest, the stitches having pulled loose in the exceedingly strenuous activity of getting down the stairs. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the thought, Sam sighed instead. “Hello, Sam.”

“You’ll never guess what,” Despite his tiredness, Dean was practically crowing as he stumbled towards the angel. Castiel drew closer to Dean as he tripped off the bottom step, arms raised ready to catch him should he fall. Behind his brother, Sam reached out too, biting his lips against the pain the movement caused. “Sam was amazing out there!”

Shock rushed through Sam, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. Dean rarely praised him, and even when he did it was with far less glee to his tone. It had only been a week since the big reveal of his powers, the breakdown he had when Dean had found out. Perhaps it had been that moment that had sparked this praise, though Sam could have told his brother it was unnecessary. He no longer thought his brother might despise him for his powers. Hearing his brother praise them was a gift; surprising, unneeded, but gladly accepted.

“How so?” Castiel enquired, hovering at Dean’s side. He didn’t touch the older Winchester, and Sam didn’t blame him. He was certain Dean would have shrugged the angel off the same way he had shrugged Sam off earlier if Castiel made contact with him.

“You should have seen him,” Dean declared, finally sinking down into a chair. He rolled his head backwards, grinning at Sam upside down. Sending an appreciative smile his brother’s way, Sam sank down on the bottom step, unwilling to move further. Turning back to Castiel, Dean continued, “So the werewolf was coming at us, right?” Green eyes flicked up to Castiel’s face, ensuring he was listening. Castiel hovered next to Dean, looking unsure as to what he was meant to be doing beyond that. “But Sammy here used his powers to shove me out of the way and knock the wolf backwards at the same time – knocked a little tree over at the same time, but I don’t think he meant to.”

“A sapling, Dean,” Castiel interrupted, causing Dean to roll his eyes. Sam couldn’t help the faint snort of laughter that escaped him. Blue eyes met his, a glimmer of amusement shining within.

“Whatever,” Dean snorted, waving Castiel away. With worried eyes, Sam noted Dean’s flinch, but didn’t say anything. He knew Dean wouldn’t approve of his interruption right then. “The point is, he got me to safety – not himself, idiot –” Dean’s tone was fond, so Sam didn’t take offense, “And then, when the wolf got up and tackled him, he shot it right in the heart. Then, he used his powers to shove it off of him. And, let me tell you, that guy was big. Not gonna lie, but I felt a bit useless there, Sammy.”

“What?” Sam asked, leaning himself gingerly against the wall. It held him up well, so he let more of his weight collapse back into it. “You want me to just let you get bitten next time?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Dean shrugged, then hissed. He had a pretty large bruise on his back from where Sam’s power had shoved him away just a little too hard, him still learning how to control it. Dean had waved him away when he’d tried to apologise, but Sam still felt wrong having bruised his brother so badly. It just didn’t sit right with him. “Just make sure there’s something for me to do next hunt, alright?”

“I’ll try,” Sam said mulishly, watching Dean and Castiel with wary eyes. Castiel was stepping closer to Dean, raising his hands ready to heal his brother. Dean hadn’t noticed yet. While Sam knew that Dean wouldn’t mind Castiel’s healing, would welcome it, even, that didn’t mean he didn’t expect Dean to lash out at an unexpected touch. Deciding to alert Dean to what was happening – Castiel was still too quiet for his own good – Sam added, “Now let Castiel heal you.”

“Whatever, bitch,” Dean mumbled good-naturedly, but turned back to Castiel. He ignored Sam’s muttered ‘jerk’. The angel put his hand on Dean’s head, a silver-white glow emanating from his hand where it touched. Sam watched in fascination as the wounds on Dean’s body knit back together, became faint pink lines then white scars, then nothing at all. Every time he saw that particular skill it awed him. To Castiel, Dean said, “Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” Castiel nodded solemnly, his brow still knit tightly. Something was bothering him, though Sam couldn’t figure out what. “Though you should get some rest.”

“I should get a beer, you mean,” Dean argued, turning his head back to grin at Sam. “And a burger.”

“You just had one!” Sam exclaimed, leaning forward and regretting it. The claw wounds on his chest made their presence known, violently.

“And?” Dean asked, eyebrow raised. Pressing his hands to the table, Dean levered himself out of his chair, groaning as he did so. After sinking into an enormous stretch, he winked at Sam and then turned to leave, heading towards the kitchen. “I’ll leave you two nerds to…” he squinted at Castiel, shaking his head when he came up with no answer for why Castiel looked so hurt. “Whatever it is nerds do when they’re not reading. Talk about books? Talk about monsters? Cry about feelings? Whatever.”

He shook his head and sighed with satisfaction, as if he’d just made the greatest joke of all time, yet disappointingly, nobody appreciated his effort, then left.

Castiel didn’t move, though his expression changed somewhat. Instead of looking just hurt, Sam noted, he now looked hurt and perplexed. Sam wasn’t surprised; Dean could be a very confusing man.

Groaning softly, Sam dug his fingers into the walls as far as they would go, fingertips grazing painfully on the bricks as he heaved himself upright. Pain flared through him, whiting his vision out and leaving him to sway, a tree caught in a near-gale-force breeze. Something seized his arm, made him flinch, but when he finally blinked his vision clear he settled. It was only Castiel, offering support.

Nodding his thanks at the angel, Sam leaned against him as Castiel led him towards the table. He sank down into the seat Dean had vacated, warm leather heating his cold-stiff limbs. With a sigh he sank back, glad to have his weight supported by something else. It wasn’t quite the same as sitting in the Impala. For all he loved Baby (though not as much as Dean did. _Nobody_ could love that car as much as Dean did.), the car was hardly the right size for him. Squishing himself up to fit inside wasn’t comfortable on the best of days, let alone when he had four long, ragged gashes haphazardly stitched up upon his chest.

“Remove your shirt,” Castiel’s voice broke into Sam’s dazed thoughts, making him jump once again. All the twitchiness around Castiel probably wouldn’t look good, but Sam couldn’t help it. He was exhausted and all he wanted to do was sleep. Interacting with anyone else was putting quite a bit of strain upon his overly taxed brain. Especially an angel with a sudden penchant for apologising, though to Sam’s relief, he hadn’t started in on that yet.

When Castiel’s command finally registered with Sam, he couldn’t help the way his eyebrows rose, the way he squinted at the angel.

“What?” he asked, narrowed eyes fixed upon Castiel’s face. From what Sam could see, it took all of Castiel’s willpower not to roll his eyes the same way the angel had seen him and Dean do for years, now.

“Remove your shirt,” Castiel repeated, reaching out to pluck at the blood-blossomed material stretching sticky across Sam’s chest. “I must see your wound to heal it. I don’t have as much grace as I once did. I need to concentrate on the worst of your wounds.”

“Right,” Sam nodded, as if that made sense. Sam had seen Castiel heal civilians with worse wounds than him without needing to see the damage. Suspecting that Castiel just wanted to see the damage for himself, reassure or berate himself depending on what he saw, Sam stripped out of his shirt in painstakingly slow movements. Eventually, his shirt came off, leaving him bare-chested in the cool air, save for bandages winding around his chest. Goosebumps raised up on his skin, a faint chill tensing his muscles. “There you go.”

With gentle fingers, Castiel reached out to brush along the edge of the bandage. It was soaked with red, though it’s presence had saved Sam’s shirt from sticking to his skin, pulling tacky at the wound as he’d taken it off. When Castiel reached to unravel the bandage, Sam braced himself for the coming pain.

“I do not want to heal the bandage into the wound,” Castiel explained, though Sam suspected that was a lie, too. He’d seen the angel heal bandaged injuries before. Politely not saying anything, Sam just grit his teeth and gave a brief nod of his head, allowing Castiel to do as he wished.

Within moments, filled with an odd, strained silence as they were, the wound on Sam’s chest was exposed to the air. Then, fingers brushed softly over it, light glowing under them. On his chest, the tears knitted back together, their healing process following the same as Dean’s. It didn’t even phase Sam, despite the grace used.

Normally, he hated the use of grace, but when it came to Castiel, when it came to the smell of ozone and lightning, the prickling of electricity that came from the use of this angel’s grace, it never bothered him. In fact, he trusted it implicitly, knowing it came from his and Dean’s angel.

Finally, wounds healed, Sam leaned properly in his chair, the pain gone. Running his fingers across his chest, the hair there scratching his palm slightly, Sam marvelled at the healing Castiel had wrought. No matter how many times he had seen it, it still amazed him. Castiel amazed him, even after all they had seen, after all they had done. Castiel, who looked… Sam squinted at him in the dull lighting of the war room. He looked distinctly upset.

Just as he was about to ask the angel what was wrong, Castiel spoke up.

“You told Dean about your powers,” Castiel began, sounding pained. Sam couldn’t help but wonder why.

“I did,” Sam agreed, pursing his lips at Castiel. “Is there a problem?”

“You did not tell me you had told him,” Castiel’s voice was the same rough grumble it had always been, though there was a note of hurt in it now. “I had assumed you were still yet to do so.”

“Oh,” Sam shrugged, taken aback. He didn’t know where the hurt lie for Castiel, but he could explain this. “We were on a hunt. In Kansas. Missouri called us. I used my powers. Dean saw.”

A nod signalled Castiel’s understanding of the words, though his expression did not clear. Instead, Castiel pulled out the chair next to Sam’s, perched himself on the edge of the seat. Teeth nibbling at his lip, Sam watched the angel, studied him meticulously. He could tell that something still bothered Castiel, still niggled at the angel’s mind, though what it was he didn’t know.

Eventually, clearing his throat softly, Castiel said, “I know why you didn’t tell me.”

That was good, Sam knew. If Castiel understood that he hadn’t told the angel because he was distracted, because it had honestly slipped his mind, then it was good. Sam hadn’t been meaning to hold that information back from Castiel, hadn’t been meaning to leave the angel tiptoeing around Dean and keeping important knowledge to himself, but the overwhelming relief that he felt when Dean had said that everything was alright, that he didn’t hate Sam, had left him reeling. The fact that he ought to have told Castiel didn’t even occur to him, not until the moment just seconds ago when Castiel had sounded hurt about it.

“It is because you do not trust me,” Castiel said simply, as if it were a fact.

“What—” Sam asked, but was cut off.

“I understand why,” the angel continued, looking down at his lap. His fingers were linked, twining together nervously. “There are many things I have done that would lead you to distrust me.”

“What?” Sam tried again, but received no real answer.

Instead, Castiel explained, “I have never apologised for the time you had no soul, and I saw it fit to use you as a pawn. Such actions would lead you to distrust me, I know.”

Sam tried to say something, but nothing came to mind. Left opening and closing his mouth in the desperate urge to stop Castiel, to tell him that he didn’t need to apologise for that, that it was all forgiven, Sam knew he looked like a fish gaping for water. Still, he couldn’t find the words. They crowded in his throat, too many trying to escape at once, leaving the angel to sit there, sheepish and shame-faced. Sam longed to reach out and place a hand on the angel’s shoulder, but he was rooted to his seat, pinned to the spot the same way he was when demons got the upper hand.

“I am sorry, Sam,” bowing his head, Castiel looked down. Following his gaze, Sam watched with furrowed brows as Castiel kneaded at his own thighs, fingers digging in tightly. Such obvious agitation was something Sam rarely saw in the angel. Seeing it now left guilt welling up in his throat, washing the crowding words away. Again, he found himself lost for words, though this time it was because there _were_ none, not too many. “I have wronged you.”

“Castiel…” Sam began, aching. Wanting to reach out, Sam had to clutch the arms of his chair to remain rooted to the spot. “Cas, I don’t…”

Panic flared in Castiel; Sam recognised it in those blue eyes when they reared up to meet his own.

Together they sat there, eyes latched, bodies still.

On Castiel’s face, genuine terror appeared to rear its ugly head, just for a second. Opening his mouth, Sam tried to say something again, but Castiel jumped in.

“I have pushed you too far,” Castiel decided, face turning towards the floor. “I should not have presumed I’d have your forgiveness in this.”

“What?” Sam was beginning to think he was a broken record, nothing but that confused question spilling beyond his lips. Taking a deep breath, Sam managed to get out, somewhat indignant-sounding, “I forgive you, Cas. I forgave you.”

“It is kind of you to say,” Castiel assured him, shaking his head and not meeting Sam’s eyes. “But I do not expect your forgiveness, Samuel. You have a remarkable capacity for it, but some things are too much, even for you to forgive.”

Steadying himself, Sam took a deep breath. It sank down into his lungs, clearing away both the clamouring voices desperate to be heard, and the oppressive silences that demanded Sam never talk about his period soulless again.

It was still a sore spot for him, one that he didn’t like to think about. The way his body had been running around, whoring itself out and murdering willy-nilly, with nary a thought to it beyond whether it would be the more _prudent_ thing to do… Revulsion rose up in Sam, almost bringing his earlier salad with it.

Shaking that off was a difficult task, but one he had to accomplish if he ever wanted to convince Castiel that he _wasn’t_ angry about that. At least, he wasn’t angry anymore. 

“I won’t lie,” Sam began slowly, keeping his eyes averted from the angel’s. Not feeling the prickling sensation that usually accompanied Castiel’s gaze, Sam could only assume the angel was following his lead on that, instead staring at the floor, possibly the table top. Swallowing, he carried on, “When you did that, Cas…” he paused, struggling to share his innermost thoughts. “Cas, I’d spent so much of my life trying not to be that guy, trying not to be what destiny said I’d be.”

“I know,” Castiel jumped in, regret evident in his voice. It made the growl in his tone thicker, almost to the point of being incomprehensible. Sam thanked his good ears for being able to understand the angel even then. “I wasn’t… I didn’t think of that, Sam. I just wanted the war to stop, another apocalypse to be avoided.”

“I get that, I do,” Sam assured, hazel eyes flickering up to meet with blue. Their gazes clashed for the briefest of moments, before skittering past each other. “But Cas, you have to know, the way I became that _monster_ , it… It… I still regret everything I did then, even now.”

“Of course you do,” Castiel agreed. To Sam’s surprise, the angel leaned forwards, his hands reaching out to lock around Sam’s wrist. Barely resisting the urge to tug it back, tuck it beneath his thigh, Sam met Castiel’s plaintive expression instead. “Sam, everything you do is intrinsically _good_. Of course you regret it. But you must know it was only you on your basest level, you without your soul.”

Shamed, Sam ducked his head. Of course he would be like an animal without his soul. It made sense; Sam was tainted by the darkness (though not anymore, not since he’d _cleansed_ himself with the Trials), tainted by his connection to Lucifer. The fact that he’d managed to hold back at _all_ was a miracle in and of itself.

Sighing, Sam leaned forwards, steepled his fingers in front of his face with his elbows pressing into his knees, pressed his nose to the balls of his thumbs. From Castiel’s perspective, it probably looked like he was praying. Perhaps, in a way, he was. Praying for strength, praying for the ability to get through the conversation, praying for Castiel to stop talking to him about it, praying for the angel to stop apologising for things period. Whatever strange trip Castiel was going on, why ever he had decided he had to apologise for all these things, it was doing Sam’s head in, confusing him.

Most times now, he saw Castiel anywhere in the Bunker and he walked the other way, hating the way their conversations all made him feel like he was stumbling around in the dark, trying to find his footing, treading too close to the near-vertical incline of the hill. He knew he was close to the edge, knew at any moment he could trip right over, but he couldn’t stop stepping closer and closer to it anyway. Every time they spoke, he felt like he’d taken a wrong turning, somehow waltzed into a dimension that didn’t belong to him. Frankly, in all honestly, it was beginning to _worry_ him.

Perhaps seeing Sam’s discomfort, Castiel reached out, laid a hand upon his shoulder. Sam shook it off, the touch making his skin crawl.

“If Dean had lost his soul, do you think he would be any different?” Castiel asked, startling Sam. Furrowing his brow, Sam flicked Castiel a look, still pressing his face into the sides of his linked hands. Unsure what Castiel meant, Sam shrugged his shoulders, focused back on the table. “Your brother is far more aggressive than you, Sam. You did amazingly well for someone with no soul.”

Sam snorted.

“It is true,” Castiel argued, voice as level as if he were stating a fact. Whether it was true or not, it was clear to Sam that _Castiel_ believed it. “At your basest level, Sam Winchester, you are logical. Most people are wild. There is a difference.”

“It doesn’t _feel_ like there was one,” Still, Sam could not reconcile his soulless self with the way he wanted to be with his soul. “I wanted to remain like that. I remember that much.”

“Did either Dean, Bobby or I give you any reason to believe that having a soul was a good thing?”

Sam thought about that, _really_ thought about it. From what he could remember, he’d wanted to be fixed, right up until they were dealing with faeries. He remembered learning from Dean that having a soul was about _hurting_ , about worrying and regretting and truly _feeling_ all the terrible things that happened in a life. Without a soul, Sam hadn’t wanted that. If he was being honest with himself, some days he _still_ didn’t want to feel as he did. The life of a hunter was painful, memories of the Cage burned, seared into his mind as if branded there, and losing people was always terrible, always bitter and filled with every regret a person could fathom on their own, every half-wild accusation grieving loved ones could fling at them. Sam being Sam, he could come up with a lot, _they_ could come up with a lot.

Shaking himself out of his darker thoughts, Sam unfurled from his hunched position. Loosening his muscles somewhat, Sam turned to look at Castiel. The angel was studying him intensely, face open but tensed just a little, as if waiting for Sam to tell him that he wasn’t forgiven, not really, not truly. Biting his lip, Sam leaned a little closer to Castiel, considered reaching out to touch his knee, decided against it. He was grimy, achy, still covered in blood from healed wounds and dead werewolves. _Chuck_ , but he must have stunk.

Ignoring that thought even as it crossed his mind, Sam reassured, “I do forgive you, Cas.”

“That is incredibly kind of you,” Castiel acknowledged, sending a tiny up-curl of lips Sam’s way. “Thank you, Sam.” He paused, cocked his head to the side. The return of the habitual gesture drew a small smile out of Sam, too. “But, if it was not that you didn’t trust me, why did you not…”

“Not tell you that Dean knew about my powers?” Castiel nodded, leaving Sam to chuckle a little self-deprecatingly. “In all honesty, Cas, I forgot.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I apologise,” Castiel said, the faintest hint of a blush spreading slowly onto his cheeks. “I did not think of that.”

“Obviously,” Sam shook his head, greasy locks of hair sliding out from where they were tucked behind his ears. Silence fell between them as crusty flakes of dried blood kissed his cheek, leaving him to wrinkle his nose in disgust. The blood in his hair wasn’t his. “I’m gonna clean up,” he announced into the stillness. Castiel looked as if he wanted to speak to Sam about something, though he didn’t actually open his mouth to say anything. Shrugging it off, Sam levered himself out of his chair, closing his eyes and groaning softly as he did so. Castiel may have healed him, but he was still battered and bruised. “I think Dean’s in the kitchen.”

Castiel cocked his head, listened intently for a brief flash. “He is.”

“Well, why don’t you go speak with him?” Sam asked, hobbling across the floor. His muscles were taut, straining against the abuse he’d put them through on the hunt. Castiel had healed only the obvious injuries. Sam was going to need a while to recover from this one. Taking a tumble with a werewolf was never a fun time. “I’m sure he’d appreciate the company.”

“Indeed,” Castiel agreed, giving an almost solemn nod. It made Sam laugh, a soft huff of air into the otherwise quiet room. With a grin hovering around his lips, Sam watched as Castiel’s eyes caught on his dimples, as the angel seemed to soften somewhat. Castiel stood then, his coat swinging around his knees as he moved. “I will spend time with your brother.” He crossed the room, heading in the opposite direction to Sam. Once he reached the doorway, he turned to face Sam. Startled to find himself still watching the angel, Sam blinked. “Enjoy your shower.”

“I will, Cas,” Sam promised, side-stepping towards the corridor. His face was still fixed on Castiel’s figure, standing solid in the doorway as it did. “Enjoy your evening.”

With a final, decisive nod, the soft look still lingering around his eyes, the corners of his mouth, Castiel turned and walked out of the room. There was something about the way he walked that appeared almost lighter, as if a weighted burden had been lifted from the angel’s bent back.

Shaking his head, Sam turned to face forward, exiting the room in almost a hurry. He wanted to get to the shower, wanted that feeling of gradual relaxation as almost scorching water massaged his muscles, washed his sins away.

Hoping that the shower would do away with the feeling of grime and dirt that always arose when he was reminded of his time as a soulless monster, Sam resisted the urge to practically break into a run. There was nothing to be done now to fix the things he had done when he was soulless. All he could do now was shove those things down, down, down, hope to forget them before they dragged him under. All he could do now was hope that Castiel didn’t bring up any more awful memories for him.

As he collected his towel and fresh folded pyjamas for after the shower, Sam swore to himself he would avoid Castiel at all costs, simply to avoid any more of their disconcerting, off-putting talks. With that plan fixed firmly in his mind, Sam shut the door to his room and headed towards the bathroom, his longing to be clean practically dragging him there itself.


	4. It Will All Be Okay (One Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hunt for a psychic goes very wrong, leaving Sam in the hospital, incredibly confused, with a worried Dean and Castiel at his bedside. Castiel seems to want to apologise for something, but Sam's not entirely convinced any of it is real in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying this fic so far, and that you continue to enjoy it. I've finally written the final chapter, so it's all ready to go for posting, which I will continue to do so regularly. 
> 
> This chapter does mention (mildly-ish) some of the horrors Sam went through in the Cage, so if that is something that will affect you, I'd suggest skipping this chapter. 
> 
> Anyway, as I've said, I hope you enjoy this chapter... :)

It Will All Be Okay (One Day)

It was like being underwater, held just under the surface as chaos roiled above it. Every noise was muffled, every glimpse of light distorted into horrifying visions of insanity. Flashes of green stolen between periods of blackness, snippets of sound hidden under a low, desperate groan. Trying to catch hold of a rope to hold onto, to be dragged up by to the surface, was like trying to pick up a bar of soap, each time a success until it slipped from between grasping fingers once more. Nothing stayed for long, the black pushing everything away. Sleep waited under the surface, a predator assured of its next meal, and so sleep came.

…………………………..

A quiet groan escaped when he woke up a second time. Though, he wasn’t really awake. It was more a light slumber, voices disturbing the lighter grey he found himself in. Everything was fuzzy, groggy, like trying to focus through a fever dream. The cracking open of his eyes, tacky with sleep, didn’t help. He could barely see anything through the bleary tiredness, or the pounding confusion in his head. Above him voices sounded, though he couldn’t process them enough to understand them.

“I came as soon as I could,” one of them said, deep, gravelly. He wondered if the voice was really that low, or if it had been gargling gravel in the recent past. “It was not easy in this weather.”

The weather. Yes, the weather. It had been tapping insistently, irritably, on something. Pitter patter, pitter patter. The sound wouldn’t stop, hadn’t stopped. Not since he’d found himself trapped in this confusing, cotton-muffled limbo. It mixed with an insistent beeping just to his left. He wanted to feel frustrated, to clench his fists against it, but he couldn’t. His hands wouldn’t move.

“Wouldn’t have been so bad if you weren’t in that piece of crap car,” the other voice declared. This voice was edged with frustration, sharp even through the blanket over his awareness. Despite that, though, it was soothing. Something about it told him he could trust it, could rely on it. Trying to move closer to it, to safety, he found another groan was emitted. Apparently, neither voice noticed.

“Dean,” the gravelly one said, moving from whatever distance away it had been at to close by, speaking over the top of him, threads of the words tickling across his face. They didn’t stick, slipping away from tangibility quickly, as softly as they had come. “What happened?”

“What does it look like happened?” the angry one practically growled, a wild animal caged. “He’s in hospital. Stupid freakin’ psychic did this!”

Psychic? Why did he know that word? Wasn’t that him? What had he done?

“Dean, you must calm down,” skin brushed over his, clasped around his wrist. He noticed how itchy the back of his hand was, how much he wanted to scratch it. He couldn’t. “He can hear you. What happened?”

A deep breath was sucked in, a monumental sigh blown out. It gusted across his face, bringing a blessedly cool breeze. He tried to turn into it. His neck was useless, new-born weak, not up to the task.

The angry one cleared his throat. At least, it came from that direction. Then, the voice spoke.

“We were hunting a psychic,” he was no less impatient. Skin brushed his on the other side, four points of contact against his wrist. No fingers wrapped around him, no desperate clutching to be had. Somehow, he felt the comfort of that simple touch better anyway. “She was powerful. Too strong for him, maybe. Or maybe he’s just not trained enough; she seemed scared of him at first, backing away and everything. But then… Cas…”

Emotion welled too strong in the voice, too thick. The points of warmth against his wrist flew away, probably alit upon trembling lips. He _knew_ that voice, knew how clogged it was with emotion. Something was telling him that the voice was near breaking right then, splintering under the weight of all the recent events. He longed to reach out, to grasp a tensed-high shoulder. All he could do was twitch his fingers, not even enough to be noticed.

Another deep breath.

“Cas, the psychic targeted him mentally,” a soft scraping sound, shushing like skin over skin. Maybe hands were being dragged down a bleached-white face, moon-pale with the terror of the memories. “He started screaming. Kept saying that it wasn’t real, that nothing was real. I don’t… I’ve not seen him this way in years, Cas.”

Helplessness shot through the voice, tendrils leaking into every word, wrapping the sentences up in thorny vines. Nothing he could do would stop it, nothing but the reassurance he could give.

Mustering up all the strength he had within him, he tore his eyes open. Gluey, cloudy, they floated around the room, floated until they stuck on the face, the face with the green eyes, the most important face.

Desperate fingers reached out, got caught up. He grasped, as tightly as he could, tight enough that he was sure his nails were digging in, pressing crescents into the calloused-rough skin. His head lifted, a task equivalent to Atlas himself, carrying the whole weight of the world. That was important too, he knew. Because he _was_ carrying the weight of the world, the world he saw in front of him, _this_ world.

“It’s not real,” he panted, voice cracked, shattering. “De’… Dea’…,” the words wouldn’t come, not properly. He had to convey them anyway. “It’s not real. Nothing’s… Nothing’s real.”

“Sammy?” The voice asked. It wasn’t listening! Why wasn’t it _listening_? “Sammy, can you hear me?”

Teeth gritted, eyes rolling away from the face in his strain, he forced out, “The Cage.” Then, with the last of his strength, his head slumping backwards uncomfortably, tilted just that little bit too far back, he declared, for their benefit, “You’re all in me, and I’m in the Cage.”

Warning given, strength sapped from his body, he let himself slump. His fingers released their death-grip, or maybe they had never been in one. His head pounded, blood pumping painfully through his temples, behind his eyes. No more sound could be heard beyond that thumping, the voices forced back behind the curtain, the darkness drawing once more.

With a wicked grin and inevitability in its demeanour, it swooped down over him and cloaked him in blackness once more. 

…………………………………….

When he resurfaced next, bobbing in and out of the water like an apple in a trough, even less made sense. His eyes would open this time, peeling apart like skin from an orange. Only that was fresh, he knew, not claggy and rotting like this. His whole body felt like it was slowly decaying, muscles weakening, atrophying. His hair was becoming tangled, brittle. His skin was sagging, sloughing off the bones like it did in the Cage, like it did in that ward, like it did whenever he shut his eyes for too long.

A strangled scream punched out of him.

Desperately, he scrabbled around him, eyes unfocused, practically unseeing. A softer grasp than the last grabbed him up, pulled his arm out to the side. Something pulled at his skin, stinging just barely, a needle pricked into a finger and nothing more.

“It’s like Hell,” he told whoever was clutching his hand in such a desperate grip. “It’s like when Lucifer was angry.” He leaned closer to the figure, though his eyes kept roaming the room. Lowering his voice, he confided, “We mustn’t make Lucifer angry.”

Trying to tug his arm back towards him so the skin would maybe stop moving, would maybe stay on his bones this time, he turned his head. It lolled to the side, his wild eyes finally focusing on whoever was trapped here in Hell with him. It was a face he knew well, loved like a brother. He knew his love for his family was stronger than most, more twisted and entangled and unbreakable than most. It was a source of pride for him. He wondered if it was a source of pride for the blue-eyed prisoner, stuck here with him now due to those unbreakable ties.

Desperately, tears welling but never falling, trapped within his eyes just as surely as he was trapped within a nightmare, he said, “You must always tell him no.”

A firm nod sent towards a countenance slackened in shock. He didn’t like the way those blue eyes got bluer, the way they rounded while the brows pulled down. Sadness overtook every feature, mingling with the shock until they were one and the same. He didn’t like that, didn’t want to see it. He summoned his best smile, let his cracked lips pull upwards at his cellmate. Something stung and tickled on his lips, trickling down to brush at his chin. He could do nothing about it, but his family could.

All that the other did was sadden his features a little more. He snorted; it wouldn’t help here.

“Even when he sings,” he leaned closer then, eyes darting to the doorway in futile precaution. The Devil could hear everything he said, everything he thought. Hazards of letting the Devil wear your skin as a suit, he supposed. Now, the Devil was carving his skin away slowly, letting it fall away like meat from the bone in a slow-cooked dinner. He was cooking too, slowly, his brains frying in the constant push-pull of freedom and captivity, never knowing what was real, what was false. Leaning closer still, one arm pulled back behind him so the needles wouldn’t come out, he told his old-new prison mate, “Trust me, he likes to sing a lot.”

Falling back, he felt himself laughing. Someone was saying something, calling out in desperation, but he tuned it out. It was probably just Adam, still screaming from the tortures. He’d protected him, when he’d had a body, but a soul was too insubstantial to use to protect. Even if he did go and lay himself across his brother, blanket himself across his innocent baby brother’s skin, the angels could reach right through. He’d given up hope a long time ago. So had Adam. Now, he was just a screaming shell.

To take his mind off things, he started listing songs, “Highway to Hell, Devil Went Down to Georgia, Stairway to Heaven.” He darted his eyes to the side, met horrified blue, raised his brows conspirationally. “They’re his favourites, you know.” He wrinkled his nose, tightened his grasp around his friend’s hand. He wondered if they were the one making constant noise, but decided ultimately he didn’t care. It was so muffled, like hearing sound through a layer of concrete. “He does change Devil Went Down to Georgia. Georgia becomes Kansas. Johnny becomes Sammy.”

He closed his eyes, letting the tune play through his head with abandon. It was a good song, still made him laugh, because he _knew_ , he knew the _real_ version.

With a manic laugh, he exclaimed, “He might win in his version, but in the _real_ one, Johnny wins.” A sob escaped him then, and he turned his head to the side, felt tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. They tickled his skin, made him watch to scratch, to itch, but he couldn’t. His skin would come away in great swathes. His companion would scream. He just knew it. “But Sammy isn’t in the real one. Sammy’s in _his_ version, and Sammy _loses_.”

His voice fell to a broken whisper on the last word, before more tears were falling, blurring his already fuzzy vision. Sobs welled up within him, escaping in great gasping hiccoughs. His breath wouldn’t come, his chest left screaming for oxygen. Fingers curled desperately into the white covers, scratchy underneath his bones. Skin had peeled from his fingertips earlier, always the most delicate, always the first to go.

There he lay, a skeleton, no substance at all.

“Oh, Sam,” the gravelly voice was back, cutting through his sobs to his shaking core, petrified and backed into a corner, melting away like fat into gravy, slowly evaporating until even that was gone. Something brushed his forehead, gentle fingers swiping away skin until they reached his bones, pressed cold and soothing against the fiery agony swirling within him. He lifted his forehead just slightly, leaning into that cooling touch. “Go to sleep,” the voice said, infinite sadness twining around the syllables, as if this was somehow the voice’s fault. But it wasn’t, he knew. It was his. “Go to sleep, Sam. It will all be better when you wake up.”

Somehow, he believed him.

Following those instructions, he did as he was bid. Closing his eyes, Sam went to sleep.

…………………………………..

The third time he woke up was different.

He still had to peel his eyes open, but this time he was expecting it. In fact, he had been psyching himself up into doing so for a few moments, knowing the tearing sensation was going to be at the very least uncomfortable. When he finally did get his eyes open, cloud-covered and sleep-crusted as they were, he spent a few more moments looking at the ceiling, just taking it in. He was pretty sure the last time he had closed his eyes, he had been in the Cage.

“What?” he croaked, throat scratchy, sand-paper dry. He licked his lips. They tasted like crusted blood. “Dean, what?”

“Dean’s not here right now,” a gravelly voice spoke from nearby. Sam turned his head, tangled hair knotting further with the movement. “He’s getting a coffee.”

“Castiel,” Sam felt a strange swooping and sinking inside of him, all at the same time. On the one hand, it was wonderful to see Castiel, but on the other Sam was still trying to avoid him, still unsure of his place when it came to the angel. Swallowing as best he could (which was not very well), Sam asked. “I was in the Cage…?”

“You weren’t,” the no-nonsense tone was very evident, though there was something else under it, some undercurrent of guilt. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam flexed his fingers instead. They were caught up in Castiel’s, hand warm compared to the rest of him, enough so that he knew the angel had been holding onto him for some time. “You had an injury of the mind, one caused by another psychic.” He paused, gathered himself, then chastised, “You should not take on another psychic mentally until you have had the proper training.”

“Who would train me?” Sam asked without meaning to, then closed his eyes. He gave a soft sigh, then promised, “I’ll ask Missouri.”

“I don’t know who Missouri is,” Castiel confessed, leaning closer to Sam. Sam could tell by the creaking of the rickety hospital chair, that buzzing sensation of lightening thrumming just under the skin whenever the angel came too close. “But I would help you, if you wished.”

Sam hummed, shifted in his bed. Every muscle felt aching, almost the way he’d felt when he’d first made it out of the Cage, that remembered soulless memory still implanted deep within his psyche. “You’re busy,” he told Castiel instead, then licked his lips. His tong was still dry as a rasp. Water lay on the table next to him, but no matter his darting eyes, the angel didn’t get the hint. To be fair to him, Sam supposed, he did look as if he were struggling with something internally. Taking a guess at what might have been upsetting the angel, Sam offered, “I’m fine.”

“But you’re not.”

Sam blinked, unused to having people contradict that statement. Normally, he would tell people he was fine and that would be the end of it, them taking his word at face value. Very few people ever tried to dig deeper, and Sam would _let_ even fewer still. His mind wasn’t a nice place under the surface, the depths deep enough, icy enough, unforgiving enough that they would be drawn in and swept under, crushed beneath countless horrors. No, best keep people at a safe distance.

“Sam, you’re not okay,” Castiel repeated, drawing his attention back to the angel. Something glittered in those blue depths, almost fathomless in their… guilt? Yes, that was definitely guilt Sam saw. But why? “I fear it is another of my past errors towards you.”

Brow crinkled into canyons, Sam pointed out, “The psychic we were hunting was not you.” He thought about it, realised he didn’t really remember, added, “I’m pretty sure.”

A grave face shook from side to side, lips pursed tightly. “You were not hunting me, no.”

“Well then,” he shrugged, though he was pretty sure the effect was lost altogether against the stiff mattress. A brief musing of _why_ hospitals always had such uncomfortable beds drifted across his mind, but he shook it off. His friend was hurting, most likely more than his back was right then, though he had to concede it was probably a close thing. “I don’t see how it was your fault, Cas.”

“You were confused, Sam,” Castiel brought his other hand up, clasped that around their already interlocked fingers. “You thought you were in the Cage. I know that was my fault. I broke your mind once, made you doubt. Now, you cannot stop.”

Sam turned away.

“I want to apologise for that,” Castiel told him, refusing to relinquish his grip on Sam’s hand. It made for an uncomfortable position to lie in, but Sam had just woken up. He didn’t want to talk about that time in his life, would rather forget about it entirely. “You have to know that I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

Still, Sam didn’t say anything. What was there to say? He’d forgiven Castiel long ago, and the angel should have known it. If he didn’t, what could Sam do? There was no way he could bring himself to act that would show his forgiveness any more than he had. Other than that, all he wanted to do was forget about it, lock the memories of it away in such a dark, dank corner of his mind that he would never, ever encounter them again, for fear of whatever lay in that black corner would warn him away. Yet, there Castiel was, as he always seemed to be since Sam’s powers had been revealed to him, asking for forgiveness for crimes long since passed.

“Sam, please,” Castiel’s tone was almost desperate, a frantic edge sharpening that gravel to cracking flint. “You have to understand—”

“I do!” Sam finally exclaimed, yanking his hand back from Castiel’s too-strong grip. His outburst slackened the angel’s hold enough for him to pull his hand away, tuck it back next to him on the bed where it belonged. “I do understand, and I forgave you ages ago. Please, stop talking about it.”

Silence reigned between them, broken only by the slight pants Sam let out. His anger was exertion his body wasn’t quite up to right then. Next to him, Castiel stayed stock-still, shocked into a statue.

Finally, like a gargoyle regaining the ability to move once night had fallen, Castiel sank back into the chair, stared at Sam with eyes wider than they normally were.

“I didn’t know,” he told Sam, reaching out to touch again. Sam considered pulling his hand away, but decided that it would bee too rude. Instead, he let Castiel pat the back of his palm, dislodging the needle held in place by tape, making him itch just a little. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” A new voice broke in, one that caused Sam’s head to whip around. His brother stood in the doorway, a coffee cup held in a two-handed grip. Tiny crescents decorated the backs of Dean’s hands, leaving Sam to wonder where he got them. Taking a deep breath, Sam could smell the coffee from where he lay, stronger than the disinfectant smell of the hospital, bitter and, frankly, glorious.

“I hope you brought me a coffee,” he rasped, eyes following his brother crossing the room, until he threw himself down in his chair, careful not to jostle the polystyrene cup in his grip. Biting his lip, he debated telling Dean about the conversation between himself and the angel, but chose not to. Instead, he said, “Castiel was just explaining that he didn’t know I’d like some water.” He chanced a glance to the angel, saw the faint slackening of his features that suggested relief. It was so faint that Sam knew Dean wouldn’t see it, his brother still finding it difficult to read Castiel’s face most days. “I was just telling him that most people give it to those who have just woken up in hospital.”

“Ah, well,” Dean placed the coffee on the side, levering himself out of the chair and leaning over Sam on the bed. The familiar smell of gun oil and spicy cologne washed over Sam as Dean picked up the pitcher by the bed, poured a small glass out of it. When he sank back into his chair, he placed the deliciously cool glass in Sam’s hand, trusted him to lift it to his lips himself. Sam did, closing his eyes at the sensation of water running down his parched throat. “That’s your mistake, Sammy,” Dean was grinning, crows feet crinkling up around his eyes. “Cas doesn’t normally sit at bedsides. You’re a special case.”

“You are, indeed,” Castiel agreed above him, hand still pressing over Sam’s free one. Sam sent an awkward smile Castiel’s way, unsure how to respond. He landed on a muttered thanks, before handing the glass over to Castiel. It made the angel lift his hand, let Sam draw it away from him without seeming rude or ungrateful. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Castiel’s feelings, but the angel was _confusing him_. It wasn’t fair. “A very special case.”

Glancing back at Dean, Sam saw that his brother was looking at Castiel with befuddlement. After a moment of open gawping, Dean shook his head, shook the odd behaviour off.

“Well, I guess you can get used to it, then,” Dean patted Sam’s wrist, still not willing to hold a hand at a bedside. Sam didn’t blame him; he wasn’t much of a hand-holder either, and it had only got worse as he’d got older.

“I guess so, yeah,” Sam agreed, leaning back into his pillow. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to get used to it, though. Sure, he might have wanted to get used to Castiel seeing him in the same way he would a friend, maybe even a brother, but wanting to get used to the constant wariness around the angel, the constant worry that Castiel might dislodge yet _another_ morbid memory? It wasn’t something Sam cherished the idea of, or even _liked_ the idea of.

Still, the way Castiel was looking at Sam, as if he had so much guilt and so little time to get rid of it, as if only Sam could offer him the penance he was searching for, it told Sam he was going to _have_ to get used to it. Sighing, Sam sunk back further into the propped-up pillows and closed his eyes, hoping he would get time to organise his thoughts. Instead, he found himself drifting into sleep almost immediately. _Maybe this time_ , Sam wondered, as he drifted into the blackness. _Maybe this time, when I wake up, it will all be okay._


	5. Sacrifices Made Worthless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes screaming from a nightmare about Lucifer and Castiel. The angel comes to apologise at just the wrong time, leaving Sam even more terrified than before. Dean sees the angel off, but Castiel is determined to get his apology across. Luckily, Sam is more awake and aware the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. 
> 
> This is the penultimate chapter (and my personal favourite). 
> 
> A little context for it: This story takes place in Season 11. For the most part, all of Season 11 happens the same way, except that when Castiel says yes to Lucifer, they manage to get the archangel out of him far sooner, only a few weeks after Lucifer tries to kill Sam in Castiel's body. 
> 
> Just a note for this chapter, that Sam does have a nightmare and panics at the start of this chapter, though there's no particularly graphic mention of Hell, or Lucifer. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter... :)

Sacrifices Made Worthless

An echoing crack struck through the Bunker, lightening striking the ground near quaking feet. Sam shot up in bed. Fear clung to him, the darkness watery and hallucinatory, mocking laughter and crawling demons hiding in the shadows. He scrambled backwards, ice creeping through his veins.

Wood cut into his upper shoulders, stone or brick or something equally rough scraping against the clammy skin of his neck, hair tangling and catching on the abrasive surface. He tried desperately to push himself back into it, feet scrambling ineffectively against the sweat-damp mattress as he cried out wordlessly, a silent prayer to God to save him, to get him away.

In the darkness, Lucifer waited, a patient cat. Sam was the mouse. 

Pounding footsteps sounded at a distance, somewhere Sam couldn’t see. He was too busy blinking the tears out of his eyes, pushing the paralysation of anticipation down, down, down, tucking the building scream back behind his ribs, locking it away. Lucifer could have him, could have his skin, his pain, his tears, but he could not have his broken soul. Nothing would convince him to hand that over, not ever. He would die first, and as that wasn’t a possibility down in the Cage, it would never happen. Satisfaction shot through his mind like crackling electricity, there and gone in a flash, moving too quick to settle.

Still staring at the shadow, the cranny where Lucifer was hiding, Cheshire-cat smile peeking out from the darkness, fanged and violent and anticipatory, Sam didn’t see what was catching at his wrists. Whatever it was, he kicked out at it, yelled at it, _told_ it to let him go. He would not beg. All he knew was that it wasn’t Adam holding him that way. Adam knew by now, never to get too close to Sam after a particularly bad torture session; it never ended well for either of them.

It was Michael, then.

“Let go of me!” He cried, yanking his hands back. They were stuck fast, fists tight around him, shackling him. “I beat you before,” he panted, grinning a wicked, bloody smile, eyes rolling in his head. Sweat tickled as it trickled down his temples, the sides of his face. Spittle flew with his frenzied yelling. “I dragged you down here! There’s nothing you can do!”

It was what Sam had been clinging to all these years. It would be years yet before they broke him completely, before he became like every other poor God-forsaken creature in Hell. No, first they would have to beat his maddened triumph out of him, and that would be difficult, because in his heart he _knew_ that Dean was alive, Dean was walking around _on Earth_ because of what he had done, because of how he had dragged two archangels down into the very depths of Hell for him.

“Sam,” that voice. Sam recognised that voice. “Sammy, it’s me.”

Horror shot through Sam, the ice spreading far more quickly now. He shivered, shuddered, curled further into a ball. It couldn’t be that voice. _Please_ let it not be that voice—

“Sammy, please,” he closed his eyes, shook his head. “Look at me, Sam.”

“Dean,” more tears welled up, free-flowing as they slipped from his eyes, trailed down his cheeks, cutting fresh paths into his sweat-sticky face. “Dean, no. You’re safe. You’re safe. _Please_ , Dean.”

“Sammy,” fingers ran through his hair, another hand cupping his cheek, rubbing it’s thumb across his temple. “Please look at me.”

Taking a deep breath, Sam did as he was told.

It took a lot of effort to open his eyes even to a squint, but once the tears had stopped stinging, he could open them wider. When he did so, he found green eyes staring imploringly into his, freckles and tiny white scars forming a constellation he knew well. Inhaling in stuttered bursts, Sam drew in that scent, that one scent that neither Lucifer nor Michael had ever managed to fake convincingly, that once scent that told him it was _Dean_. Gun oil, spice, whiskey and _home_.

“Dean?” he whispered, realising for the first time that his voice was hoarse, wrecked, practically ruined. He’d been screaming, then.

Remembering suddenly, Sam jerked himself out of his brother’s grip, turned to face the darkened corner, Lucifer’s corner. For just a moment, deep blue and icy grey stared back at him, a brother and a monster merged into one, before the image dissipated before his eyes, the apparition shifting to smoke. He blinked, confused.

“Dean?” he asked again, his brother’s warm form still beside him, his hands no longer wrapped around Sam’s face but instead holding his shoulders. “What happened?”

“Nightmare,” Dean’s voice was a promise, firm in its belief. “You woke me up with your little power display, Sammy.”

“Power display?” Sam asked, before shaking his head. He didn’t care, didn’t want to know. Instead, he had to say, “It was Lucifer. But it was… _Castiel_? I don’t…”

What was practically a growl emitted from his brother. Startled out of his shaky eyeing of the room, Sam turned back to Dean, frowning.

“I’m going to _kill_ that angel,” Dean seethed, rage packed behind every syllable. “I’m going to boil him in holy oil.”

“ _Why_?” Sam asked, screwing up his face. “What has he done?”

“Sam—” It was at that point that Castiel’s head appeared around the frame of the doorway, and Sam’s addled mind remembered.

Once again, Sam found himself scrambling backwards on the bed, only this time he was fighting practically tooth and nail against Dean’s arms, caught up in them and unable to really _move_. Desperately, he scratched at them, until Dean released him and he could throw himself sideways. He tumbled off the bed, covers entangled around his ankles dragging behind him as he wedged himself in the corner, shook his head and curled inwards. Hopefully, the smaller he was, the less likely he was to be seen.

“Sam, I wanted to apologise—”

“Now?” Dean’s was practically yelling himself, now. Startled, Sam blinked up at his brother, head raising from where it had been ducked between his knees. “He’s obviously not ready to see you yet, Cas.”

“But—”

“Cas, you said yes to _Lucifer_ ,” Sam flinched at the name, barely trapping his whimper behind his cracking lips. “You let him ride you out of that Cage and then almost let him kill Sam. And that’s not the worst part.”

“How is that not the worst part?” Sam heard the angel – Lucifer, Castiel, who? – “As you just said; I almost killed Sam.”

“Cas, you made his sacrifice _worthless_.”

“What?”

“Cas,” Dean’s voice was still filled with anger, bursting with fury that had nowhere to go, but Sam could hear the purposeful calming of it, too. He peeked up at Dean, watched as his brother ground his teeth and pinched his nose in exasperation. “Cas, he dragged Lucifer down to Hell –” Sam flinched at the mention of his name once again, unable to even chastise himself for his reaction. Lucifer would always strike fear into the very depths of him. “To stop the Apocalypse. He was going to suffer forever. He specifically told us to let him suffer _forever_. And now Lucifer’s wandering around topside again, ready to wipe out everything _again_ , because of you.”

“Oh,” the voice – Lucifer, Castiel, seriously, _who_? – sounded horrified, as if only Dean’s explanation was finally alerting them to this fact. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

“Obviously,” Dean muttered, sighed, shook his head. Sam wanted to reach out, place a hand on his shoulder, but shoved into his corner, he couldn’t reach.

“I only wanted to apologise,” again, the angel spoke. He was persistent, Sam would give him that. “I understand I have caused him grave distress.”

“You think?” Sam watched as Dean gave the figure in the doorway a flat stare, green eyes almost hawkish in the half-light of the corridor. “What gave it away, the screaming or all the doors in the Bunker slamming open at once?” When the figure moved to speak once more, Dean held up a hand, shook his head. “No, Cas. You can speak to him later, if he wants. At the moment, go.”

Sam held his breath. For a second, only a second, it looked as if the dishevelled angel was going to protest, was going to demand that he be allowed to speak to Sam. Eventually, after a moment’s stare off, he inclined his head, a brief dip that was more surly than it was accepting. Then, he turned to go, coattails fluttering behind him like ragged wings as he walked away. Sam blinked after him, breath still held. When the figure didn’t come back to the doorway after a few moments, Sam let his breath out slowly, uncurled himself from his ball.

Cautiously, on unsure feet, Sam raised himself up, balancing himself against the wall. Then, he staggered over to the bed, over to his brother. Dean stayed where he was, watching Sam carefully, face more open than Sam had seen it in a long time.

He had to admit that the experience was a strange one.

Normally, Dean ignored his nightmares, just as much as he ignored Dean’s. Sure, they’d wake each other up, but then they’d leave each other to deal with it as they both saw fit. Sam would normally go and do some form of physical exercise, running around the Bunker, hitting the punching bag Dean had installed in the room they were using as a gym until his knuckles were torn and bloody. Dean would sometimes cook up a storm, other times would begin the day’s drinking early. Neither reaction Sam could fault him for. Their nightmares were significantly worse than most peoples’.

As he settled back into bed, he realised he was still shivering. With shaking fingers, he reached down and dragged the covers up onto his lap, over his shoulders, wrapping himself up in them and tucking his feet into the ends. To his surprise, Dean threw an arm over his shoulder, dragged him in to a one-armed hug. The warmth his brother was emanating was glorious, and Sam felt himself groan as he sank into it.

Eventually, calmed and warmed enough, he had to ask, “All the doors, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, sounding both amused and worried in turn. “You have any idea how powerful you are, Sammy?”

Sam just shook his head. He’d only recently discovered his powers, and it wasn’t like he’d had cause to test it. What’s more, he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer.

The first drop of demon blood had been put in him to control him, to turn him towards the side of Hell, but it had made his powers weaker, Castiel had explained to him a few weeks ago, had made it easier for Ruby and the rest of her infernal friends to control him. With more blood, he could increase the power he could access within him, but the blood turned his powers infernal, made them burn with the fires of Hell.

After all, demons couldn’t very well put a king on the throne of Hell that might turn to the light, if that king were going to be more powerful than them. Now, without the blood in his system, it left Sam under the very real fear that his powers might be immense. If a Prince of Hell’s powers were vast, then a King’s would have been even more so. If his powers would have been that strong when they were trapped behind a sulfuric cage, when accessing them was like trying to suck up tar through a straw, then just how powerful might they be _without_ that Cage?

Shoving his fears down, sincerely hoping that he wasn’t really anywhere near as powerful as Castiel had theorised he might be, Sam simply shrugged, shaking his head at his lap. Next to him, Dean sighed.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

“Cas thinks so, yeah,” Sam admitted, voice so soft he knew Dean would struggle to hear it. He didn’t like admitting that sort of thing to Dean. Sure, Dean had taken the news that he had powers at all surprisingly well this time, but finding out that Sam was _strong_? Maybe that would take things too far. “But… I don’t need it.”

“You might want it, though,” Dean suggested, thoughtful more than anything. Warmth began spreading throughout Sam’s chest, melting the ice he’d been trembling with since he’d woken up screaming. “I mean… Lucifer—”

“I’m tired,” Sam cut him off, unready to talk about the Devil again that night. Quickly, he tried to pull himself away from Dean, but his brother just pulled him back in, settled him back against his shoulder. “Dean, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then don’t,” Dean shrugged, rocking Sam’s head gently from side to side. “Doesn’t mean you have to go anywhere.”

Surprise shot through Sam, but he found himself humming, smiling weakly. Sometimes, Dean was so good to him.

Squeezing Dean’s forearm, enough to tell his brother he was thankful, Sam settled down against him and closed his eyes, trusting in his brother’s ability to keep him safe. Warm, protected, exhausted, Sam found himself drifting into sleep sooner than he had expected. Next to him, Dean stayed warm and stable the whole time.

………………………………

When Sam awoke, he found he was half on top of his brother, cheek mushed into Dean’s chest, drool and the faintest traces of blood ruining Dean’s Metallica t-shirt. Guiltily, Sam prised himself upright and wiped at his mouth, his bloodied nose, before slipping out of bed. Alone on the mattress, Dean flopped around with a groan, searching for Sam. Finding the warm spot Sam had left behind, he slipped into it, curling himself up and smashing his nose into the mattress. Fondly, Sam pulled the covers up over him, before padding out the room, leaving Dean to his rest.

It didn’t take him long to reach the kitchen, where he made himself a bleary-eyed coffee. It tasted more like dirt than anything (he’d never had the skill to make a good coffee, like Dean had, but he _did_ make a mean tea), but it had caffeine in it. Enough to perk him up somewhat, at least.

Unlike he had last night, Sam was feeling the after effects of using more of his powers than he was ready for. A few flakes of blood were still crusted around one nostril and pain was shooting through his skull, knitting needles stabbing deep into his brain. The coffee helped, but in reality Sam knew he would be suffering for the rest of the day. Even without the blood, it seemed he wasn’t quite ready for grand feats with his powers just yet.

“Sam,” a voice startled him. He whirled round, splashing hot coffee all over his feet. He let out a curse, shoving his mug back on the counter and tripping backwards, lifting his legs to wipe his burning feet on his pyjama pants at the same time. “I wished to speak to you.”

Steadying himself on the counter, Sam sighed. “Castiel.”

“Yes,” the angel agreed. At least Sam had got the name right this time. “I owe you an apology.”

“I know,” Sam agreed, for once agreeing with the angel. What Castiel had done this time had been… There was no denying it, it had been awful. Worse, it was still fresh in Sam’s mind, still a gaping open wound, weeping and screaming at him that it was there, that it _hurt_ , that it wasn’t going away. They may have managed to kick Lucifer out of Castiel, may have managed to get the angel back, but the truth was still there, too. “And I forgive you.”

Pure astonishment washed over Castiel’s face, his eyes going round and his lips going slack. Sam had never seen so much emotion on that face while the angel was wearing it. Discomfort made him shift from foot to foot.

“But Cas…” he hesitated, licked his lips. “Cas, what you did was… I just… Dean’s right.”

“About what?” Genuine curiosity coloured Castiel’s voice, his head tilted to the side like a bird. It was so endearing, even now, that Sam felt himself softening just slightly.

“You did make my sacrifice worthless,” Sam told him, shrugging helplessly. “Worse, you’ve made it so… Cas, I don’t feel _safe_ anymore. I mean, I didn’t before. I always thought I might be in the Cage, but… Lucifer’s out now. Lucifer knows where we are.”

“He can’t get into the Bunker,” Castiel hurried to reassure. Sam wondered if he was really that dense, or if he was deliberately missing the point. He pushed the thought away as uncharitable, instead focusing himself back on the situation at hand. “You _are_ safe here, Sam.”

“Cas, he _was_ in the Bunker,” Sam stressed, running frantic hands through his hair. “Cas, he was in _you_.”

Shame-faced, the angel stopped talking. He stood there, hands at his sides, looking lost, and so very alone. Something about the way he was standing – though he always stood awkwardly – told Sam that the angel was feeling attacked, helpless, unsure of how to proceed. It tugged at Sam’s heartstrings, softened him. Closing his eyes and holding back a groan of frustration, Sam loosed a slow breath instead.

“Think about it, Cas,” Sam’s words were gentle, soft, but they were also guiding, leading Castiel towards where the hurt really lay this time. “Think about how it felt to be possessed, when you were aware of it. Think about how you don’t want that to _ever_ happen again. Think about the inevitability of it, standing right in front of you, and you _know_ you’ll be possessed again, somehow,” Castiel was looking a little peaky by that point, leaving Sam to believe that the angel was feeling incredibly close to vomiting. “Cas, you brought that feeling into my _home_.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said again, voice practically a whisper. This time, though, it sounded realer, somehow.

Earlier, Castiel was trying to apologise for what Lucifer had done in his body. Now, Castiel was trying to apologise for his own actions. It didn’t make Sam feel good, but it made him feel lighter.

Torturing the angel emotionally hadn’t been his goal, but he needed Castiel to understand. If he understood better, perhaps he would think about his actions more before he carried them out. After all, Castiel was just as likely to choose bad courses of action as Sam, but unlike Sam, who chose them after thinking everything through, after finding himself backed into a corner with no way out, or worse, manipulated there, Castiel saw the consequences of these actions from Sam’s mistakes, then chose to do the exact same thing. It was frustrating, continually watching the angel fail to learn.

Something told Sam that, this time, Castiel had learned.

“My goal wasn’t to make you feel this way, Sam,” Castiel informed him, voice sounding pathetic, even to Sam’s own ears. “I just wanted to save us. Lucifer could have saved us. He could have stopped Amara.”

“No, Cas,” Sam shook his head, sending a sad look Castiel’s way. “He couldn’t.”

That was the kicker, Sam knew. Castiel knew it, too, if the way his face fell was any indication. From anyone else, that would have been an expression crumpling into tears, into bitter, ugly sobs. Instead, Castiel merely hung his head, curled his fingers into fists at his sides.

Eventually, the angel admitted, “I wanted to believe he could stop Amara.”

“I know,” Sam sent the angel a soft smile, tilting his head just a little to the side as he studied the dejected figure the angel cut. “You just wanted to help, Cas. And that’s why I forgive you. You did what you did because you thought it would help.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel’s voice was still downtrodden, still filled with aching sadness carried so deep it made Sam’s soul ache for him, but there was a lightness in him now, too. Somehow, hearing that he was forgiven had evidently lifted his spirits, just a little, just enough that he resettled himself, held his shoulders just that little bit higher. Sam could practically see his wings lifting up behind him.

“Anytime Cas,” Sam smiled at him, warmer and wider than before. “Anytime.” Turning, he asked, “You want a coffee?”

When he received a muttered no, he shrugged then went about making himself a new cup. While it was cooling, he started cleaning the floor, paper towels soaking through with now-cold coffee, the bitter scent of it rising up to sting at his nose, wake him up even more.

It was just as he was throwing the used paper towels into the bin that Dean entered the room, sleep-ruffled and pillow-creased. He looked like a sleep-deprived zombie, shuffling over to steal Sam’s cup of coffee, hands outstretched.

The half-awake obliviousness Dean brought into the room with him was startling enough that the somewhat oppressive silence Sam and Castiel had fallen into was shoved aside quickly, leaving only place for jokes and laughter.

Despite Dean’s half-hearted hostility towards the angel, it seemed as if he’d come to the same conclusion as Sam at some point during the night: that Castiel had, indeed, only been trying to help. While the execution was lacking, they couldn’t fault the goal.

As they bantered over breakfast, Dean’s hostility faded, Castiel began looking less and less like a repeatedly kicked puppy, and Sam’s headache finally faded into the background. Once he’d wiped away the crusting blood, he felt even more human.

Breakfast finished – it was mostly coffee, he had to admit, though Dean attempted to make one single, solitary pancake – Sam stood up from the bench table, declared his intent to shower. Dean waved him off with a yawn, but Castiel stood up. It startled Sam. From the looks of the angel, it had startled him just as much.

Shaking his head and grinning softly, dimples on full display, Sam patted Castiel on the shoulder as he went past.

“You’re a good man, Cas,” he told him, watched as Castiel’s expression shifted from confused to dumbfounded. “We both know you are.”

Leaving the speechless angel behind him, Sam continued to pad out of the room, stopping only to send a grateful smile the angel’s way when Castiel called out to him, “As are you, Sam Winchester. Don’t ever doubt it.”

Feeling somehow buoyed by the situation, Sam found himself whistling as he wandered away from the kitchen, ignoring Dean’s confused inquiries as to what their exchange had been about as he went.

Sure, he knew their conversation hadn’t changed anything. Sam knew he still wouldn’t feel safe until Lucifer was back in the Cage, knew that sometimes, on the cusp of sleep and wakefulness, Castiel’s face would still terrify him, would still leave him screaming about Lucifer, but deep down, underneath it all, Sam knew that Castiel _understood_ now, would _think_ before doing things, would _learn_ that there were consequences to actions, and they ought to be thought about before the action was carried out.

Hell, Sam knew that he was just as guilty as Castiel at messing up, but he tried to learn from his mistakes, always. Hopefully, Castiel had been set upon the same path, or even just directed further down it in the right direction. Whatever had happened that morning in the kitchen, whatever realisation Castiel had come to, Sam knew it was only going to be good for all of them.

More settled than he had been in days, Sam breathed out a sigh of relief and headed towards the shower, determined to clean off the grime and dirt he’d acquired, determined to feel human once again.


	6. Always and Forever Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on a hunt with both Dean and Castiel, Sam gets injured. Castiel finds something else to apologise for, and Sam has had enough. His apology is wasting precious time they don't have, and he's never liked them that much anyway. They're confusing, and they have to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I'd have posted this earlier, but my neighbour came around to visit (I live in the country, it's a bit of a walk, so the visit is long). We had to coax his dog into the house, and then, when he was going, we had to coax him out again, meaning I didn't get to post this chapter as early as I'd have liked to on my day off. :) 
> 
> This chapter is a little different, because Castiel is not apologising for something on the show, but rather something that happens within the chapter itself. As a warning, this chapter does contain canon-typical violence and a mention of injury, so if that's something that will affect you, I'd suggest not reading this chapter. 
> 
> It's the last chapter of this work, but don't worry: I'm already part way through writing another instalment for this series, from Dean's point of view, about Sam learning to control his powers. 
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos so far, and a preemptive thank you to anyone who does so in the future. I hope you enjoy... :)

Always and Forever Forgiven 

Sam backed towards the centre of the room as the walls started shaking and the floor started rumbling. The angel they were hunting was angry, violent, and determined to get revenge upon a hunter they had joined up with for some imagined slight. The hunter had never even _met_ the angel, but because the hunter’s father and offended it once, now it wanted revenge on a living relative – a relative who didn’t even _like_ hunting in the first place.

Normally, the shaking walls wouldn’t be a problem. If need be, Sam imagined that, with some effort, he would have been able to steady them with his powers. If he was lucky, that was. He didn’t claim that he had any _real_ sort of control over them.

Unfortunately, he, Dean and Castiel had all met up with the hunter the angel was targeting, a man going by the name of Jay Nicholson, and he was one of those hunters who very much disliked all who displayed as non-human or human-plus or whatever it was that a psychic once destined to be the King of Hell was. Whatever Sam counted as, he knew Jay would just as soon turn on him. He and Dean had only barely managed to get Jay to withhold on killing Castiel, and that was only because the hunter had heard tales of Castiel’s fondness for hunters before he’d left the hunting life behind.

Because of the shaking of the room, one that Sam couldn’t stop, they were all thrown a little off. Jay had been thrown down to his knees, his gun coming up, being pointed side-to-side frantically, made only more erratic by the localised earthquake they were all experiencing.

Behind him, Sam could hear Dean crying out, both for him and Castiel. Turning, he tried to hurry over, but his progress was slow. Next to him, Castiel managed to stumble sideways enough that he crashed into the wall and toppled over completely. Only barely was Sam still on his feet, arms outstretched to the sides as he tried to keep his balance. In front of him, Dean clung to a radiator, long since turned cold. Except…

To Sam’s horror, Sam watched as Dean yanked his hand away from the metal frame of it, shaking it out in front of him, his gun clattering at his feet and firing off a shot randomly as he clutched at his wrist. The bang of Dean’s gun prompted Jay to fire his own weapon, though he missed hitting anybody, too. Shaking his head, Sam refocused his attention on his brother. Even from where Sam was, half way across the room, he could see the blisters bursting out on Dean’s skin, red and angry. Wincing, Sam tried to hurry towards his brother.

Before he could make it, the ceiling started cracking, massive crunching noises renting the air, violent crashes of thunder breaking through the sound of a humming motorway. The noise was almost unbearable.

Worse, it meant the ceiling was falling.

Panic seized Sam, gripping him tightly and _squeezing_ when he saw a chunk of the ceiling fall, striking Dean on the head on the way down. With it, Dean dropped like a stack of bricks, eyes rolling back in his head as he did so. Crying out, Sam redoubled his efforts to make it to his brother, only to stop when he heard Castiel’s voice, calling out for him.

“Sam!” he cried, hands and knees planted firmly on the floor. With worried eyes, Sam turned back to the angel, watched as he staggered upright just barely, taking a few steps to right himself. “Sam, Dean is alright! Think about it. You’d know if he were hurt.”

Castiel was right, of course. Closing his eyes, Sam focused on his connection with his brother, felt the tug of ethereal rope between them that had always been there, but that he’d only really begun to notice since he’d got his powers back. Normally, he paid it no mind, but now it brought him relief. It still connected to Dean’s body, meaning his soul was still in it. Dean wasn’t dead yet.

Gratefully, Sam sent a nod the angel’s way. He feared it was lost in the chalky dust of the air, in the way his body was practically vibrating with the movement of the building, but Castiel seemed to understand. The way his eyes narrowed slightly at Sam, subtle recognition in front of a trigger-happy hunter, left Sam knowing the angel had got the message.

“Where is that frickin’ angel?!” Jay cut between them, gun still raised, still moving terrifyingly between target to target. Sam braced himself for impact, knowing that, any moment, a bullet could come flying towards them. “I’ll show him. I’ll show him.”

“ _Her_ —” Castiel began, though he closed his mouth sharply when Sam cut his hand at him. Message received and understood. Good.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass _what gender_ the angel is,” the hunter growled, grey eyes flashing almost madly between Castiel, Sam, and the heap of his brother tucked away in the corner. “I just want it to _pay_. It’s holding _me_ responsible for things my father did!”

“We know,” Sam tried to reassure, to calm, but it seemed as if Jay was having none of it. Running one hand through his gingery hair, Jay span around again, searching desperately for it. Wherever it was hiding, it wasn’t within plain sight. “Jay, we get it. Your dad did some awful things, and you don’t want to be associated, we get it—”

“Shut up!” he cried, waving the gun around. A wet sheen glistened over his eyes, his cheeks blotchy with colour. “Shut up! You don’t _know_. I just want it to _leave me alone_!”

Resisting the urge to groan in frustration – young hunters were the _worst_ , and yes, he did know that he’d been a young hunter once upon a time – Sam flicked the safety onto his gun and tucked it into the back of his pants. There was no use in keeping it out: he couldn’t exactly get a clear shot in the still-shuddering building.

“Really, Jay, I do,” Sam reassured, reaching out with hands spread wide. He wasn’t a threat, he was just trying to help. Jay could see that, too, and began lowering his weapon. “I didn’t want to be a hunter, either. I just wanted the supernatural to leave me alone. But, Jay, this isn’t _you_ looking for a hunt. This is the hunt coming _to_ you. You’ve got to keep your head.”

At first, rage seemed to slam down over Jay’s face like a wall, a twisted mask of fury contorting his features, but that cleared quickly, followed by understanding, by belief. Sam wasn’t lying to Jay. The hunt really had come to him. Hunts had come to Sam at Stanford occasionally, and he’d risen to the challenge, ready to protect those around him, those he cared about. Here, Jay was trying to settle down into a good life, but the angel wasn’t having that, had already killed one of Jay’s friends. The young man needed to pull himself together, needed to get a grip of himself like Sam had at Stanford. Sam knew it, and he could see light dawning in Jay’s eyes as he reached the same conclusion.

The younger man sucked in a steadying breath, released it slow, and gave a drawn-out nod. Relieved, Sam reached to take the gun.

Before he could to so, Jay’s eyes widened almost manically. He whipped around, just to the side of Sam, and got ready to shoot. Spinning, Sam caught a glimpse of the angel they’d been hunting, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of her, right in front of Castiel. Just to the side of him, Jay was getting ready to shoot, gun loaded with angel-killing bullets. There was only one course of action Sam could reasonably take.

With a determined yell, Sam threw himself forward and sideways, hoping to knock Castiel out of the way, but knowing that, at the very least, he’d be in front of the angel when the bullet fired. Whatever happened, it couldn’t hit Castiel.

The bang of the gun sounded at the same time as Sam crashed into Castiel, knocking him down. Castiel tumbled first, but as he crashed down he kicked at Sam’s legs, causing Sam to crumple, landing on his back. It was the impact with the floor that did it, that let him know he’d been hit. Worse, the floor kept roiling, upping the pain with every undulation. It didn’t take more than a few before Sam was rolling to the side, bringing up his lunch. That only caused him to ache more, and before he knew it he was dry retching.

Above him, he couldn’t work out what was happening. All he knew was that, if he wanted the pain to stop, he was going to have to stop the angel. Gritting his teeth with determination, eyes closed tight and his heaving stomach shoved down, down, down, Sam reached out, stretching out with his senses until he could locate her.

She engulfed the room, watching with glee, flickering in and out as a shadow, a shade, nothing more than a taunting ghost of herself. She was a cat playing with a mouse, amused that it ever thought it could get away.

Ice-cold fury rose within Sam, the pain only making it worse, and he reached out with his senses, straining himself to the point that he felt like his brain was going to explode. Something was trickling from his nose – probably blood, he wasn’t going to taste it to be sure – and his ears felt like water was clogging them. Still, he had to do this, had to stop her. It _hurt_ , god did it hurt, but he _had_ to fix this, had to stop it.

Determination coursing through his veins, giving him the strength he needed, the strength he didn’t know he had, he reached out, tugged her inwards, downwards. He shoved her into her vessel and pinned her in place. Amusement rang through her grace as tiny bells, somehow sweet and mocking all at once, though it wasn’t long before a jangle of fear sounded out, an off-note to her grace. It threw off the whole melody, transformed it from delicate jingling to the clanging of over-worked gongs. She was panicking. _Good_.

A shot rang out, loud, and then the room stopped rumbling, the ground stopped shaking. The pain in Sam’s back shrank from constant, shrieking agony to a duller, but no less painful, ache.

Just as he was about to open his eyes, a hand slammed down over them, smearing something sticky all over his skin. Light appeared to flare, her sickly grace flaring almost green behind his eyelids, licking over his skin like rough tongues, hooked thorns trying to cling to something, anything, to keep her together. But nothing was there, and she dissipated, leaving only a thumping noise to remember her by as her body collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

Logically, Sam knew her wings would be imprinted on the floor where her body had been, but he still reached a hand out, still tried to touch them. With the hand over his eyes gone, he tried to blink them clear, finding something red and sticky clinging to them. Frustrated, he let out a growling groan, but the red still did not clear.

“Here,” Castiel’s voice caught Sam’s attention, drew his gaze back. There was the faint trickle of water hitting skin, then a cold splash against Sam’s face, his eyes. Blinking, he sighed as it flushed his vision clear, enough that he could peer upwards at Castiel’s face. His _wrecked_ face. “I can’t fix this. That’s an angel-killing bullet. Sam, I’m—”

“If you even think,” Sam spat between clenched teeth, panting hard. Fire lanced through his back, crackling, spitting, popping in the muscle. “About saying sorry…” he was struggling to catch his breath, and it was obvious. “I will banish you, Cas.”

“But Sam—”

“This wasn’t your… fault.” His tone brooked no argument. Castiel hadn’t shot Sam, hadn’t even _tried_ to shoot Sam. It wasn’t even really Jay’s fault, either, Sam knew.

The sudden remembrance of Jay had Sam lifting his head from it’s concrete pillow, hissing through tight-clenched teeth has he searched for the ginger kid. He was crouching near Sam, looking truly devastated. His gun was discarded to the side and he was holding his hands up in front of his face, acting like he already had Sam’s life-blood on his hands.

“Same goes… for you… kid,” he bit out. Jay startled, looked at him with over-wide watery greys. “Not… your… fault.”

“Sam,” Castiel tried, reaching out with still-wet hands to rub at Sam’s face. Sam was pretty sure the angel was trying to wipe the blood from his cheeks, his lips, but it wasn’t working. All he was succeeding in was wiping thinned-out watery red over him, colouring his skin with his morbid paints. “Sam… What am I going to tell Dean?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at Castiel. “That it… was an accident?” he gasped out, wishing he weren’t lying on his back. He was pretty sure blood was spreading around him in a puddle, looking much worse than it really was. “Cas… help me roll. Put pressure… on the wound…”

“Sam,” Castiel tried again, forcing Sam to roll his eyes. Deciding he’d have to take matters into his own hands, Sam tried to turn over, though all he really succeeded in doing was flopping around like a dying fish. Knocking his head backwards against the floor, coughing a little at the still-dusty air, the musty decaying smell of a building falling apart, the tang of irony blood, Sam groaned in frustration. “Please, save your energy.”

Something in Castiel’s voice caught Sam’s attention. Fixing his hazel eyes on Castiel, he studied the angel properly. He looked truly broken, as if he were about to watch something that would destroy him.

Biting his lip and shoving down the pain, Sam found himself asking, “Cas, what do you think is going on here?”

“You’re dying,” the sorrow in Castiel’s voice was thick and real, and it made Sam’s heart clench in his chest. It also made him want to laugh, just a little bit. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault, and you won’t even let me say sorry.”

“No,” Jay interrupted, coming up next to the angel. He placed a hesitant hand on the angel, lip curling in a way that suggested to Sam that the young man couldn’t decide whether he was disgusted or not. “No, it’s _my_ fault.”

Letting out a pained and frustrated groan, Sam slammed the heel of his palm back into the concrete. It grazed his flesh, the faint prickling sting of it distracting him only briefly and barely from the insistence of his wounded back. It bit at him, screamed at him, and all he wanted was something to take the pain away. What he really didn’t want was to be lying at the foot of two crouched _idiots_ – he was in agony and they weren’t helping, he didn’t have to be generous – trying to explain to them how fine he was. In that moment, at least.

“It’s not… your fault,” Sam gritted out, teeth grinding together hard enough that he thought they might crack. “I… jumped in.”

“You did,” Castiel acknowledged, bowing his head. He reached out and picked up the hand of Sam’s that was closest to him, squeezing it gently. “Why did you _do_ that, Sam?”

“Because you’d die… if you… were hit _anywhere_ with an… angel-killing bullet,” Sam pointed out with a huff. Even to his own ears it sounded angrier than he would have liked, but honestly, it didn’t take a genius to work out he _wasn’t dying_. Though, if they didn’t get their acts together, he would be _soon_. “And you’re… my _brother_ … Cas.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Castiel’s voice was the closest to a sob that Sam had ever heard it. In fact, when Sam looked up into Castiel’s face, those deep blue eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. Finding himself surprised, Sam tried to reach up. He didn’t even know angels _could_ cry. “What am I going to tell Dean?”

“That you… wasted… all my time… holding me,” Sam ground out, losing his patience just a little. There was a bullet still _in_ him, and he wanted it out. “Instead of, I don’t know… taking me… to hospital.”

“What good would that do you now?” Castiel asked, and Sam _did_ roll his eyes this time. Patience lost, he heaved and panted and groaned his way over onto his front, his own blood splashing around him stickily. By the time he lay down on his stomach, the roughness of the concrete had lifted his shirt, just for the opportunity to dig into the skin of his abdomen. Finally on his front, Jay rushed to apply pressure, stripping his own ratty hoody from his arms and wadding it up, pressing it hard against Sam’s back. He let out a pained grunt at the added pressure, but otherwise didn’t complain.

“It would save his life.” A new voice cut in, causing them all to jump. Sam felt, considering the circumstances, he could be forgiven, but the fact that Castiel and Jay hadn’t noticed a groggy Dean stumbling his way towards them was a little concerning. Green eyes met his own, Dean crouched down near Sam’s head. “You alright, Sammy?”

“Mm,” he agreed, reaching out towards Dean. His brother’s calloused hand slipped into his own, letting Sam squeeze it as hard as he liked. The pain eased just a little, just enough to clear his head somewhat, when he did, so he kept his tight grip on Dean. “Except for… the unnecessary apologies. Also… the death talk.”

“Yeah,” Dean slapped his shoulder blade, the one opposite to the bullet hole, but it still hurt. He flinched, and Dean gave him a rather sheepish, “Sorry.”

“Don’t… know… why,” Sam gasped, trying to hold back a scream as he tried to scrabble himself upright using only one hand (his other was still held in Castiel’s) and his knees. Understanding what he was trying to do, Jay and Dean situated themselves under his arms, holding him upright on buckling knees, while Castiel dropped his hand and stripped the belt from his own coat, wrapped it around the hoody pressed to his wound and tied it tight, enough to keep a decent amount of pressure on it. “Remember what happened… last time… I was shot.”

“I try not to,” Dean quipped, helping Sam stumble forwards. Castiel rounded him, walking backwards as they headed towards the exit of the warehouse, sidestepping chunks of debris as much as possible. Still, they all stumbled and tripped through it. Every time one of them lost their footing, Sam ended up crying out, but it was better than lying in the puddle of blood on the concrete, better than bleeding out on the floor. “But yeah.” Dean shrugged, jostling Sam, “You took out a werewolf.”

“Three,” Sam objected, eyes squeezed shut against the agony he was feeling. Actual salt water tears escaped his eyes, cutting streaks of clear skin onto his blood-smeared face. _Chuck_ , but his head was pounding, his back throbbing, his palms stinging, his eyes _burning_ … All he wanted to do was rest. “I killed three—”

“Three?!” Dean exclaimed, wide eyes turning to Sam, before shifting to Castiel, who was still hovering in front of the three hunters with wide, guilty eyes. “Cas, can you clear up his blood? Can’t have his DNA on the scene.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Castiel nodded, hurrying back the way they had come.

Meanwhile, Sam and his companions had reached the Impala, parked right outside, just as they had left her. Together, they managed to load Sam into the back of the car. Then, the debate as to who was going to sit in the back with him, keeping pressure on his wound, started. Closing his eyes, Sam gave himself permission to tune it out. It didn’t matter who did it, not to him, only that it was done. He couldn’t reach the wound properly to do it himself, and he was so _tired_ …

Snapping awake with a start, Sam hissed as the bullet hole was pressed down on. Turning his head to the side, peering through bleary eyes at whoever was doing it, Sam found himself face-to-face with Castiel.

“Sam,” he began, sounding grave and serious, though a little less worried than before. A slight wrinkle in his brow told Sam that, yes, the angel was still worried, but not in any way that suggested death might be upon him. That was good, Sam supposed. He nodded. The angel opened his mouth again, waiting until he had Sam’s full attention – or as full as it could be, considering how much he _hurt_ , how much his head was spinning – to speak once more, “I didn’t realise you could be saved. I’m—”

“I will… still…” Sam growled, trying to look at the angel with his most stern expression. Somehow, he got the feeling that he had merely succeeded in going cross-eyed at the angel. A scowl spread itself across his face at the thought, which was far better. “Banish you… if you try… to apologise.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Castiel confessed, looking truly bewildered. Not just bewildered, Sam noticed, but upset about it, as well. “I… Sam, you have to know that I see you as a brother, too. I’ve done many things that I would not have even _considered_ doing against my brothers and sisters once upon a time. You deserve apologies from me.”

“Yeah… well…” Sam shrugged as best he could, sending his head lulling from one shoulder to rest on to the other. “I’ve had… enough of… them. They… confuse me. Whatever it is… whatever you’ve done… I forgive you. So just… stop?”

“You can’t mean that,” Castiel argued. Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Didn’t most people _want_ the easy option? Didn’t most people _want_ the path that meant they didn’t have to apologise? Honestly, the angel was still incredibly bewildering to Sam, even after all the years he’d known him. “You cannot have forgiven me for every slight against you and your brother.”

“I can’t… speak for Dean…” Sam tried to keep his eyelids from slipping closed, staring at the back of Dean’s head – Dean was doing his absolute best to look like he _wasn’t_ listening in on their conversation, though from the set of his shoulders Sam could tell he _was_ – but they were on their way down. With monumental determination, he opened them wide. His eyes felt sticky, like they were drying out in the sun. Tiredness was seeping into his limbs, making him feel loose and heavy. Sleep was tugging at him, dragging him down, and all he wanted to do was fall into it. He couldn’t. There was still Castiel to talk with, to make understand. “But Cas… You’re family. That… means something… to us.”

Castiel fell silent at that. Sam had to peek at him out of the corner of his eye, just to make sure the angel had heard. From the expression on his face, Sam could tell that not only had Castiel heard him, but he was taking that information in, processing it, coming to a conclusion and… the angel gave a deep nod, conceding Sam’s point.

“Very well,” Castiel conceded, using his free hand to pat at Sam’s shoulder. Tacky with blood, his hand stuck to Sam’s flannel, making a faint ripping sound as the angel peeled his hand away. Sam couldn’t help the way his nose wrinkled, turning up at the handprint the same way Dean would have. "If that is what you want.”

“It’s what… I want,” Sam agreed, toppling towards Castiel. He landed with his shoulder jabbing into Castiel’s ribcage, but from the way the angel tugged him inwards, let Sam rest his head on Castiel’s shoulder, Sam got the impression that Castiel didn’t mind so much. He smiled softly, a weak thing through the haze of exhaustion and pain. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Sam,” Castiel murmured, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. It felt nice, even if Sam knew that Castiel was running tacky blood through his already plaster-dusted hair, and Sam let himself float there. Sleep wasn’t on the cards, he knew, not until they made it to the hospital, but there on Castiel’s shoulder, Sam could just _rest_. It was nice, and simple, and not confusing in the least. He let out a sigh, Castiel’s soft words tickling his ears, “You are welcome, brother.”


End file.
